


And Darkness Is Fading In, And Darkness Is Real

by skarletfyre



Series: In The Absence Of Light [2]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, M/M, Mentions of past drug use, References to Domestic Violence, Robots, tags and warnings will be added as the story progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-03-16 10:57:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 81,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3485693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skarletfyre/pseuds/skarletfyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's no such thing as escaping your past.</p>
<p>- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - </p>
<p>  <em>Ferte in noctem animam meam</em><br/><em>Illustrent stellae viam meam</em><br/><em>Aspectu illo glorior</em><br/><em>Dum capit nox diem</em></p>
<p>  <em>Cantate vitae canticum</em><br/><em>Sine dolore actae</em><br/><em>Dicite eis quos amabam</em><br/><em>Me nunquam obliturum</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The End of All Things

**Author's Note:**

> WOOOWWWW SEQUEL HAHA nobody was expecting this to happen less than me. i was pretty done. and yet here i am.
> 
> basically i came to realise that there were some loose ends to WDITD that i very much needed to patch up. i'm not going to say exactly what, obviously, because spoilers, but these two stories are very very much connected.
> 
> please read [ What's Done In The Dark Will Be Brought To The Light](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2271144/chapters/4989870) before you read this story. this is not a standalone work. it is a sequel directly related to the story preceding it.
> 
> there will, however, be some changes. i don't think i'm going to do the alternating POV thing anymore. not as a rule and not for every chapter. point of view will shift according to which character it's important to be focusing on and who will best advance the story. i know i played around with the amount of page-time everybody got in the last one, but this time i want to have more freedom with who gets to say what.
> 
> okay. now to the actually important part.
> 
> i really need to say thank you to everyone that let me get this far in the first place. the fact that i've not only completed a 100k fic but am now writing a second part to it would have been absolutely impossible for me to imagine a year ago. there have been so many messages and comments, so many words of support, and i am so fucking grateful to be a part of this batshit fandom because i've meet some really amazing people through it. i don't want to start naming names because i know i'll forget someone important and then feel terrible about it. but to anyone who's messaged me or [follows me on tumblr](http://genuineanger.tumblr.com), to the amazing artists who have created art based off of my story, to all the people who found WDITD after it was finished and commented to tell me they'd read it all in one sitting. wow. thank you. thank you so much.
> 
> i'm going to give this story nothing less than my very best. i want to do right by all of you and by these characters. right now it's mostly an idea, but i'll be super pleased with myself if i can pull off even half of what i have in mind.
> 
> i hope i can live up to your expectations.
> 
> thank you so much
> 
> \--skarlet <3
> 
> (also yes the summary thing is the song from harry potter and the prisoner of azkaban fucking fight me)

_**Five Years Later** _

 

The fog was heavy that day.

Watching it roll in over the water, thick and impassable, blocking out all but the most determined rays of sunlight had always brought René a sense of peace.

They were alone out here. Alone with the green, rolling hills and the rocky shores. An island in an ocean of fog. It should have been terrifying, the notion of isolation. Of being all alone in the world. But he found it comforting.

The coffee in his hands was enough to keep him warm on the chilly summer morning, combined with the heavy blanket thrown over his shoulders. He sat on the front porch, as he always did, watching as the world around him disappeared in a haze of grey.

Erik was still asleep. René had left him in bed, letting him catch up on the rest he'd denied himself for too many nights.

This home was still strange to them. Three and a half years of living on the run, never staying in the same place for longer than a month, crossing borders and state lines in the dead of night, taking turns keeping watch, all of it had taken a toll on them. To be settled down somewhere, to not have to run at the slightest sign of detection was a relatively unfamiliar concept. They'd lived in this house for over a year, and René was only just being able to call it home.

Erik was becoming restless. He never said anything, of course, but René knew him well enough.

He was treating this life they had built as temporary. A façade to be dropped at a moment's notice. He made breakfast every morning and read the newspapers and answered house calls, keeping on friendly terms with their few neighbors. He had infested the house with a new flock of doves.

And yet, René knew about the bag in the bottom of the wardrobe, stuffed full of spare clothes and money and passports for the both of them.

He took another sip of coffee and sighed to himself. The fog had moved up the shore now, obscuring the small, smooth stones beneath its bulk. It crept ever closer to the porch steps, and the swinging bench on which he sat. Soon it would encroach all around him, swallowing the house and the surrounding hills.

René shrugged the blanket from his shoulders and stood, rolling out the stiffness in his joints. He was forty-five now. Practically an old man. There was more grey in his hair than black these days and he was starting to feel the years. In his back especially. And in the fine, treacherous lines around his eyes and mouth. Wrinkles. Traces of time that touched only him.

Erik was the same. Unchanging and enduring.

He drained the last of his coffee and took another glance at the fog before turning to head inside. A small sound by his ankles made him pause.

The cat was small and brown, a scrawny tom that must have crawled up from under the porch while he wasn't looking. It wound between his ankles, looking expectantly up at him.

“Hello, _Chat,”_ he said simply.

Chat, as far as René could tell, had come with the house. He had no collar or tags and no one in town seemed to know anything about him.

But he would not leave René alone.

Erik disliked cats. He disliked anything that posed a natural threat to his birds. He shooed the cat away whenever he caught sight of it, screwed up his face into a frown as he picked the cat hair off of René's shirts. His disdain seemed to suit Chat just fine. He only had eyes for René.

He humoured the animal at first, amused by its attachment to him. He scratched its head when he could convince it to draw near, which soon moved to rubbing at its fluffy belly. Against Erik's wishes he started leaving out cans of fish, and then started buying proper cat food from the little shop in town. Erik was the one who suggested he name it. _Chat_ simply seemed appropriate.

“Are you hungry?” he asked the cat, who mewed again in response. René let his lips twitch into a small smile as he pushed open the door. “I'll be back in a moment.”

The house was not large. It was a modest enough home, single story, two bedrooms, one bathroom, a nice sized kitchen and sitting room. The spare bedroom was used as a shared office space for the two of them, not that they ever did much paperwork. Occasionally one of the neighbors from town would come to the house complaining of one ailment or another and Erik would lead them back there, letting it double as a sort of examination room. Those instances were few and far between, however. Both of them discouraged people from thinking of their home as a sort of free clinic.

René set his empty mug in the sink, leaning back to look down the hall when he heard the running water. So Erik was awake after all. So much for letting him sleep in.

He went to fetch a bowl from the cabinet and smiled when he noticed that the toaster was in use. Erik rarely ate breakfast. And if he did it was on special occasions. Sausage and eggs, omelets, big sit down meals that let him work up an appetite while he cooked. But the toast wasn't for him.

He still wasn't used to this. This simple domesticity.

René had played the domestic game before. He'd played the role of a doting husband, of a hopeful newlywed, of an overtaxed family man. Those types of jobs were never his favourite, but he was good at them. But still, they were jobs.

This was not a job.

There was nothing scripted or rehearsed about the way they fell asleep in each other's arms. Nothing forced about the comfortable silence they would find themselves sitting in, each tending to their own little projects, merely enjoying the companionship of being in the same room. René didn't feel like he was playing a game or a character anymore.

He felt loved.

They didn't say it often – the words themselves brought a certain tightness to Erik's smile, which René had taken pains to understand and forgive – but then they didn't need to. It was things like the toast. The next book in the series he was reading being set out on his bedside table. The way Erik's eyes would close and he would hum, ever so softly, when their lips met.

This was real. Realer than anything he'd ever felt before. And better than anything he'd ever known.

He couldn't stop smiling as he pulled the milk from the fridge and poured a dash of it into the bowl. He opened the front door again and set the dish outside for the impatiently waiting Chat, patting it fondly on the head as he so. And by the time he closed the door again, his toast was ready.

“Is there any hot water left?” he asked, when the bathroom door opened. Erik stepped out in a cloud of steam, towel wrapped low around his hips, using a washrag to dab at the thick stubble on his jaw.

The beard was also new. René couldn't entirely say he approved, but it was very good at its job of making the doctor unrecognizable.

“ _Ja”_ Erik said, shaking his head to clear the water from his ears. “But not much. I would wait an hour or so if you want to shower.”

“I was just curious.”

Erik merely nodded and headed back into the bedroom to get dressed for the day. He didn't bother closing the door behind him.

“Did I hear the front door open?” he called out into the kitchen. René barely bothered to pretend he wasn't peeking.

“I was feeding the cat,” he called back, taking a bite of his jam and toast. He'd found the newspaper from the day before and was taking his time to leaf casually through the pages. Down the hall, he heard Erik snort.

“You really shouldn't encourage that pest, you know.”

The tell-tale fluttering of wings was all the warning he had before a dove plopped itself on the table, fixing its beady little eyes on his bread crusts. He quickly lifted his plate.

“Speaking of _pests...”_

“Menaechmus, _nein.”_ Erik bustled quickly into the kitchen, clad only in socks and a pair of modest cotton shorts and scooped the offending bird into his hands. “What have I told you about begging?”

“Quite a few things,” René quipped, quirking an eyebrow at his lover. “Or were you speaking to the bird?”

“René, I _just_ got out of the shower.”

“That's never stopped you before.”

Behind the beard, he couldn't tell if the doctor was frowning or smirking. He opted for the latter.

“Do you need anything from town?” he asked, raising his newspaper to block Erik from view. His bare chest – bare almost everything, really – was becoming very distracting. The man really hadn't aged a day in the last half a decade. His arms were still strong, his legs were still magnificent, and the hair on his chest was still both thick and dark. René could only hope to look that good when he was pushing a hundred, mummified in his grave. They both kept up their own rigorous fitness routines, determined to stay in fighting shape should the worst occur, but one of them was working significantly harder at it.

“You're going shopping today?” Erik asked, heading again into the bedroom, taking the troublesome dove along with him.

“ _Oui._ We're running low on milk-”

“-Because you keep giving it to that _verdammte_ cat-”

“-as well as the good wheat bread, and hand soap. I want today's paper as well.”

“See if they have any more of those little cream pastries as well.”

René snorted.

“Alright, I will see if they have your pastries. Anything else?”

“ _Nein, danke._ Are you driving or walking?”

“Walking today, I think.”

“Hm.”

René let his newspaper drop, just in time to watch Erik pulling up his trousers.

“What was that?”

“What was what?” Erik said, purposely not looking at him.

“That noise. You disapprove.”

“I do not.”

“You think I should take the car.”

“I think you should do whatever you want, _schatz.”_

“Why do you think I should take the car, Erik?” he asked, ignoring the warm, fluttery feeling he got in his chest whenever he was addressed by that particular nickname. They were bickering. This was no time for casual affection.

“When did I say that?” Erik challenged, pulling an undershirt over his head.

“You didn't have to, I could hear it in your tone.”

“Could you.”

“Yes. And I'm going to take the car.”

Erik took a moment to hastily button up his shirt, glaring at the floor as he did so. René folded his newspaper, creasing it a bit more crisply than necessary before laying on the table. He got up to put his plate in the sink.

“You don't have to take the car,” Erik said primly, walking out into the kitchen. “If you would prefer to walk I'm not going to stop you. It is completely up to you, and I don't think-”

“Why is it so important that I take the car?” René asked, his voice rising. Bickering had moved dangerously close to arguing. They'd argued over smaller things. Mode of transportation seemed almost reasonable by their standards. He turned around, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest, waiting for the other man's rebuttal. Strangely, he seemed almost reluctant to speak.

“It's not _important,_ and may I point out that I still haven't said that I don't think you should walk, that is merely an inference on your part, _schatz,_ not that it really matters either way-”

“Do not speak down to me like a child, _cher,”_ he said sourly. “It clearly matters, the fact that we're still speaking about it means that it matters-”

“You're the one who brought it up, all because you think I made a noise-”

“You _did_ make a noise!”

“-which you chose to interpret as disapproval-”

“I know you, Erik, I _know_ your noises.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

René's nostrils flared as he took a deep, angry breath. Oh, _he_ was being ridiculous? This was _his_ fault now?

“Tell me why you don't want me to walk,” he demanded, balling his hands into his fists. “Stop dancing around whatever this problem of yours is and _tell me_ why this matters so much.”

“It doesn't m-”

“Finish that sentence and I will be taking a room at the inn.”

Erik closed his mouth.

It was a low blow and a petty threat, but one that he was not above using. He'd done it before. Well, not gone to the inn, but he'd refused to come to bed and instead slept on the couch for days. It made Erik miserable. It made them both miserable. But if it meant he would win this argument, then he would feel perfectly justified in curling up on the sofa for the foreseeable future.

The doctor's lips pressed into a thin, tight line. An acknowledgment, finally, that this had become more than simply picking at each other. This was a fight now. One he stood no chance of coming out on top of if he didn't change tactics. Preferably by coming clean and admitting his fault.

“It's cold outside,” he said tightly, as if that explain everything. René raised an eyebrow.

“And?”

Now Erik was uncomfortable. _Discomfort_ was written in every line of his posture, in the way he flicked his eyes briefly to René's chest, the way he did when he was steeling himself for a disagreement. It was an unfortunate side effect of his years of espionage that René was able to pick these things up and decipher them, giving him an unfair advantage in the world of domestic arguments. He crossed his arms over his chest again, blocking Erik's eye line and forcing him to look up. To say what he had to say.

“And I don't want you to catch a cold,” the man said, his posture rigid. “I just didn't want to say as much.”

“It is so difficult for you, showing that you care,” René snapped.

_That_ was a very low blow and he knew it as soon as it left his mouth. Too harsh. Too close to home. Erik's eyes flashed as he took a half step forward.

“I do care,” he said. His voice had dropped to almost a whisper. “And I was not going to say anything because in the past you have been very sensitive to any comments concerning your health or well-being, particularly coming from _me._ I was not going to say anything because I understand that this is a sensitive subject for you. I wasn't going to say that I think you should take the car because I am worried about you becoming ill. I did not want to start another fight, René, but it seems as though that option has passed by us, _ja?”_

René could feel the flush in his face. Anger and embarrassment and a little humiliation, all rolled into one to bring that traitorous red into his face.

“Is that what you think?” he said. “That I am too _sensitive?”_

“That isn't what I said and you know it.”

“That I am so fragile a little inclement weather will be enough to do me in?”

“René-”

“I will be _fine,”_ he hissed, putting both hands to the doctor's chest and shoving. Erik didn't so much as budge, but it made him feel better. He stormed past him out of the kitchen, toward the door again. His coat was hanging in plain view from its hook on the wall but he ignored it, instead grabbing his wallet and keys from the bowl on the table beneath it.

“Bread, milk, and soap!” he shouted, yanking the door open. He caught a glimpse of Chat's tail as he bolted beneath the porch again.

“And the pastries-”

“ _Fuck your pastries!”_

He pulled the door shut with a resounding slam and set off.

His pace was brisk down their muddy driveway. He was wearing the wrong shoes for the two mile walk into town, but there was no way in hell that he was turning back now.

_Sensitive about his health._

The phrase ate at him as he squelched along, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his trousers. He was not _sensitive_ about his health. There was nothing to be _sensitive_ about. He was perfectly healthy. He exercised almost daily, he ate well, he only drank in moderation. He was no longer being killed or shot at multiple times a day. They weren't living out of a shoebox anymore, hunched together beneath a bridge, scavenging bandages and antibiotics from wherever they could get them. He was _healthy._ There was absolutely nothing wrong with him.

By the time his foot hit the asphalt of the road, he was winded.

_Merde._

The cigarettes. Of course.

He'd been smoking since he was twelve years old. He was forty-five now. His lungs had been replaced several times – years ago, before he and Erik had become close – but those were also the days when no damage sustained to his body was permanent. Respawn or the Medigun would patch him up at the end of every battle. Combined, they took care of every injury, every ache and pain, every minor fault in his body. Including the damage to his lungs.

Those days were over now. The years were catching up to him.

He crossed his arms tightly over his chest, tasting bitterness at the back of his throat as he coughed. _Damn_ him. Damn him for all those years of scolding, calling them vile, calling them “death sticks.” Damn him for being right.

René was trying to quit. It was easier when he was on the run and simply couldn't get his hands on the things. Now, knowing they could be obtained in any corner store within a very short driving range, the temptation was back in full force.

Perhaps he would pick up a fresh pack from the shop. Out of spite. Just a special little something to help hurry him toward the grave.

A shiver passed through him that had very little to do with the cold.

He knew what Erik had meant. Why he came off as _sensitive_ about his health. He _was_ sensitive.

He was dying.

Slowly, day by day he was aging. His skin was sagging, his hair was graying, his organs were becoming less efficient at their jobs. He couldn't really feel it happening, but his imagination was bad enough. Especially in comparing himself to Erik.

Erik. Beautiful and unchanging Erik. He really hadn't aged at all, not a single day in the last five years. It was almost laughable now how worried he'd been. How afraid that his great experiment had failed, that he might have to go back and beg for scraps of Australium to begin again. There was no need. It worked perfectly, of course. _He_ was perfect.

He was going to live forever, hearty and hale, while René was going to waste away to sagging skin and rickety bones until he eventually keeled over and died.

That was the ugly, unspoken truth between them. That was what the fight was about.

René slowed in his steps, still breathing too hard. The town was in sight now. He didn't want to be seen like this, huffing and puffing after a brief stroll.

And he was cold, too. His thin sweater wasn't enough to guard him from the chill, and he could see clouds gathering in the distance. If he got caught in a downpour and actually _did_ catch cold he'd never hear the fucking end of it.

Gritting his teeth and pulling his sweater closer around himself, he picked up the pace again.

 

“'Mornin', Johnny!” the man behind the counter called as soon as he set foot in the store.

“Good morning, Brian,” René replied, with forced cheer. The false name he'd chosen when they arrived in this town was _Jean._ It had been tragically misinterpreted as _John,_ and he'd had to live with the consequences ever since.

“The Doc not with you today?” Brian asked, peering over the counter top as though he might be hiding Erik somewhere behind him.

It was hard to say what exactly the people thought of their relationship. They'd done their best to keep it private, for their own protection. As far as everyone knew, Erik – known to all as Dr. Braun – was a retired physician and René was his assistant. No one had confronted them or given them any trouble, but he'd caught the odd look thrown in their direction, or the whispers that started as soon as their turned their backs. Perhaps it would be good to move on from this place soon.

“ _Non._ Only myself today.”

“Need help findin' anything?”

“I believe I know where everything is, thank you.”

His voice came out sharper than he meant it to. He softened it with a small smile, but nothing more came from the man behind the register. That suited him just fine.

He went for the bread first, took his time picking a loaf that wasn't squashed. He grabbed a fresh quart of milk before going for the soap. They didn't have the specific scent that Erik preferred in stock, but he settled for something similar. On the way back to the counter he passed the baked goods shelf.

He stared at them. At the little cream filled ones that Erik could eat an entire package of in one sitting. After a moment of angry deliberation with himself, he swiped them off the shelf and went to pay.

 

Erik was waiting for him on the porch when he got home.

René expected some snide remark about how cold he looked, or a comment on the six inches of mud staining up his pant legs. But nothing came. He noticed the steaming mugs in Erik's hands.

“I made tea,” he said quietly, as René walked up the steps. “We could drink inside or outside, if you'd prefer.”

René took a moment to scrape the worst of the muck off his shoes.

“Inside.”

Erik dutifully followed him indoors, settling at the kitchen table as he unpacked the groceries. He didn't comment on the pastries.

“Thank you,” René said, pulling his cup toward him once he sat down. They were across from each other, mirroring each other's posture as they often found themselves doing. If either of them moved their feet, they would be touching.

The tea was hot, but a bit cooler than he usually preferred. Erik must have estimated the time it would take him to get back and tried to brew it accordingly. He wasn't going to complain, though. It was made just the way he liked it. And it was the thought that counted.

“How was your walk?” Erik asked, sipping from his own mug.

“Cold,” René admitted. “Brian asked after you.”

“Who?”

“The man who runs the store.”

“Ah. That was kind of him.”

They both paused to drink at the same time.

“I'm sorry,” they said, at the same time.

René raised his eyebrows and closed his mouth. All the way home he'd been steeling himself, plotting an apology, trying to find the words that would convey his feeling without starting another argument. He'd worked himself up under the impression that he would have to go first. Not so, it seemed. He wanted to hear this.

“I'm sorry,” Erik said again, more softly, when it became apparent that he must be the one to start. “For behaving as if you did not know what is best for yourself. And for speaking to you the way I did. I made the situation worse than it needed to be, and for that I apologise.”

Well. That was more than he expected, honestly. René cleared his throat.

“I'm sorry as well. I... may have overreacted. Blown the situation out of proportion. And I- I'm sorry for what I said to you. You didn't deserve that.”

Another beat of silence passed between them.

“Apology accepted,” Erik said at last.

“As is yours,” René replied.

They smiled at each other as they finished the rest of their tea.

 

* * *

 

The rest of the day passed uneventfully.

They both made efforts to be around each other, to further apologise and make up for that morning.

Erik cleaned the large roost for his birds, which took up almost an entire wall of the living room. René grudgingly stuck around rather than finding a reason to excuse himself. He read, flipping through the latest issue of _GQ_ while the temporarily homeless birds edged boldly closer to him. All he had to do was shift and they would all take to the air. He shifted frequently.

He ran a load of laundry while Erik tidied the office and finished up some of his paperwork.

René prepared a light lunch for them both, which they ate in relative silence. Erik got into the pastries.

By the time the sky was darkening, they were both hungry again. They cooked together, as they sometimes did. The good doctor was set to the task of chopping vegetables while René manned the frying pan, making sure the meat browned thoroughly. They were elbow to elbow, sleeves rolled up, laughing and smiling and trying to keep the mood as light as possible.

He liked it when things were this way. When they were simply a couple spending time together. Two men in love, and comfortable with themselves. No thinking about the past, no letting their own emotional baggage drag them down. These moments passed between them less often than he would like. They were few enough that each one was to be treasured and enjoyed while it lasted.

The onions were finished sauteing. René was just getting ready to add in the peppers when something nearby beeped loudly.

It was a curious sound. Light and whimsical, but with a shrillness to it. It was a sound he'd never heard before.

“What is that?” René asked, looking around. He thought at first that it was the smoke alarm. But the food hadn't burned, and they were standing right beneath the thing. Nothing else in the house would make that sound. The television and radio were switched off, and the phone had a very distinctive ring of it's own. This was something else. He looked to the doctor, to see what he made of it all.

Erik was staring toward the back of the house. His expression was cold and guarded, and more intense than René had seen it in months.

He knew what the sound was. He understood something that René did not, and he didn't like it.

“Erik,” he said, turning to face him fully. He set the spoon on the counter top. “What is that sound?”

Erik didn't answer him. He was already walking toward the bedroom.

 


	2. The Enemy

A dark car arrived at the house around midday.

René saw it first, through the window as it came down the lane. The sun glinting off the hood was what caught his eye. It drove slowly, as though scoping the house out before drawing too near. The windows were tinted too dark for him to see who was inside, but he didn't need to see. He already knew.

They went out to the porch as the car turned down their driveway. Standing side by side, watching the vehicle come to a slow, careful halt in front of their home. They watched, standing close enough for their shoulders to bump, as a man climbed out of the driver's seat. He was short and stocky, with slick dark hair and a broad, unsmiling face. He didn't so much as look at them. The muck clung to his polished shoes as he walked around the car to open the rear passenger door. At the angle he held it, they still couldn't see who was inside.

A thin, gnarled hand tipped with violet-painted nails appeared at the top of the door. Pale fingers clutched at it for support.

Erik was in motion at once.

He hurried down the steps, ducking out of sight as he leaned down to help the passenger to their feet. He emerged with a thin arm wrapped tightly around his own, a large purple hat rising from behind the door to obscure the face of the woman wearing it.

But there was no mistaking The Administrator.

She clutched at the massive fur coat that engulfed her small frame, pulling it up to keep it from trailing behind her in the mud. The coat itself was so large that it was hard to tell where it ended and the woman began. Even then, it was plain to see how frail she was beneath it.

René stood back to hold open the door as they came up the steps. The driver made no move to follow them. He remained standing beside the car, arms crossed dutifully behind his back. René afforded him a nod before going indoors, closing the door firmly behind him.

“I've been in sheds bigger than this house,” the Administrator said as Erik led her across the living room, helping her lower herself into the only armchair. He snorted.

“I'm very sorry to hear our accommodations don't live up to your standards, _mein_ _e Freundin._ I think we've done rather well for ourselves, considering the circumstances.”

“Yes, yes, I'm sure it's a perfectly acceptable love nest you've built yourselves.” She removed her hat and thrust it at him. Her hair was the colour of iron, run through with thick streaks of white, thin and falling limply about her shoulders. With her face uncovered, René could see just how much she'd aged since last they'd met. There were dark circles under her eyes, and a faint, milky sheen to her irises. Her cheeks had always been high and hollow, but there was a gauntness to them now that spoke of illness, or simply a rapid decline in health. She looked almost nothing like the cool, commanding woman who had once controlled every aspect of their lives. Now she looked like a frail, feeble old woman. She looked tired.

“I didn't come here to critique your interior decorating, unfortunately,” she said as Erik crossed the room to hang her hat by the door. She reached into the folds of her coat and produced a cigarette case and lighter. “This is a business call. For god's sake come and sit down, I'm getting a headache from looking up at you.”

“Would you like something to drink?” René offered, watching with longing as she lit her cigarette and took a deep, rattling drag off of it. Smoke billowed from her mouth as she scoffed at him.

“Don't be ridiculous. Though you might, when I'm through. I said sit _down,_ both of you. I don't have all day, some of us are dying here, Erik.”

There was an uncomfortable moment of silence as the doctor's eyes flicked in his direction. The fight from yesterday was still fresh on both their minds. René let it slide. Another matter for another time.

The pair of them took the couch sitting perpendicular to her, settling nervously into their seats. Perhaps Erik wasn't nervous, but René was.

This entire situation was surreal.

It had been five years since either of them had seen or heard from this woman. Five years of running and hiding and keeping their heads down, of sleeping in alleyways and cargo holds and under bridges. Five years of constant fear and paranoia that they would be tracked down.

And now, the power behind one of their greatest adversaries was sitting in their living room, on their couch, smoking and wearing fur and barking orders at them.

He knew that _she_ wasn't the threat. The Administrator herself wasn't the danger they were running from, but she was certainly a harbinger of bad things to come. This was, as she said, a business call. He shuddered to imagine what sort of “business” she was bringing to their doorstep.

The Administrator took another deep, full pull off her cigarette and stared at them. She looked at them with narrowed eyes, letting the smoke coil out of her mouth like some great mythical beast surveying its prey, trying to decide if it was really worth the effort. René felt like an ant, waiting for the boot to come down.

“Redmond and Blutarch Mann are dead,” she said at last, and he felt his heart stop in his chest.

“ _Was?”_ Erik breathed, sitting forward. “How- how is that-”

_We're free._

It was René's first thought. Unfounded and unjustifiable, but first nonetheless. Without the Mann brothers hounding them, there was no one left to chase them. There was nothing left to run from. There was no need for the ceaseless, private little wars to be fought in the middle of New Mexico's deserts, no looming shadow of uncertainty about their fates or their futures. They could be _free._

“They were murdered,” the Administrator added, and all his hopes came crashing down.

“Murdered?” he repeated numbly.

“The Company has fallen,” she continued, flicking the column of ash between her fingers onto the arm of her chair. “The Gravel Pits are overrun. Most of the old bases have been ransacked, and I have confirmation of at least three being entirely destroyed. Mann Co. itself is under threat.”

“Mann Co.? But Saxton Hale-”

“On the lam, as it were. As am I. That man out there is one of his, _generously_ on loan from our illustrious benefactor. He's a walking brick, of course, but he's loyal. He can be trusted.”

“Where is Laura?” Erik asked urgently. The Administrator waved a dismissive hand.

“The girl is perfectly fine. I've sent her somewhere safe. She should manage to stay out of harm's way, if she's as smart as I think she is.” René felt Erik relax beside him. He resisted the automatic urge to reach for the man's hand, to comfort him.

The two hadn't been in contact, so far as he knew. Grandfather and granddaughter had been separated for these five years without so much as a coded message between them. Unless Erik was keeping their communications from him. Two days ago, he wouldn't have believed it. But that was before the phone rang from the hidden compartment in the chest of drawers.

“What is she doing?” Erik asked, with obvious relief in his voice. The Administrator lit another cigarette.

“I've given her an assignment. Nothing too difficult, nor too dangerous. Unlike the one I'm giving you. ”

They shared a look.

“We haven't agreed to come back to work, Helen.”

“And I never said you had a choice in the matter.”

She flicked her cigarette again. René watched the grey ash settle into a little pile on the cloth of the armchair.

“What do you want us to do?” Erik asked softly. René turned to him, mouth open and ready to argue. The look on the man's face was the only thing that stopped him. It wasn't the resignation that he'd expected. There was a determined set to his jaw, and something stubborn about the way his brows drew together. This was not the face of a man giving in.

The Administrator turned her gaze toward René.

“I have use for an agent like yourself, with your talents. There is a place on your old team. The man we brought in to replace you after your little elopement was woefully simple-minded and will not be invited back. I'm having him dealt with as we speak.” She blew a cloud of smoke in his direction. “The work will be much the same. I expect you to use those interpersonal skills of yours and act as liaison. I seem to recall you being quite rational, when it suited you. Keep your team in line. Collect information that our enemies do not want us to have. You'll be fairly compensated for your contributions, of course.”

“You want me to become The Spy again.”

“I want you to stop pretending you _aren't_ the Spy.”

She could have slapped him and it would have stung less.

 _I am more than that,_ he had told himself time beyond counting. _I am more than my actions. I am more than the choices afforded to me._

But she looked at him with cold, cloudy eyes, looked right through through him and found the place in his heart where he knew that he was not, in fact, _more._

“And how are we meant to conduct this business if the bases are not in operation?” Erik asked, breaking the tension between them. “Are we back to the old days, fighting without Respawn? Will I be stitching up wounds by hand in the middle of a firefight?”

“You might,” she said nonchalantly, nodding in René's direction. _“He_ will be fine. The Respawn system remains functional where I'm sending him. I'm afraid you'll be out of luck, my dear. I suggest learning how to duck.”

It took a moment to process what she was saying. What she meant, that René would be fine, under the protection of Respawn, while Erik would not. Where she was sending _him,_ but not _them._

They were to be separated.

“ _Nein._ Absolutely not.”

“Oh, don't be sentimental.”

“We're not doing this, Helen. Either we are both going or we are both staying. There is not a third option.”

He reached across the small gap between them and took René's hand, squeezing it tightly in his own. The Administrator huffed another cloud of smoke at them both. Erik did not flinch.

“Do you really think I came all the way out here simply to offer you your jobs back?” she asked, shifting slightly. Her coat rippled around her like a thing alive, a great beast cradling her in its clutches. “Are you so naïve as to think there would be no one else I could go to if there were not more to this?”

“Then tell us,” René challenged. “Explain why you want this so badly from us.”

“It isn't a matter of what I want,” she snapped, in a tone much closer to what he'd once been used to hearing being blasted from over a loudspeaker. “What I _want_ has nothing to do with it. This is a grave matter. The Company is in far more danger than you realise.”

“Explain,” Erik said, just as sharply. “You've given us nothing, told us only what you expect from us. This secrecy is doing nothing to convince me to return. You have made much better sales pitches in the past, _meine leibe Freundin._ This is a comfortable life that I have made, and I am not so eager to leave it as before. Give me a good reason, or go back to your car and have your man drive you toward your backup plan.”

It had been too long since René had seen him like this. Willful and uncompromising, teeth bared in a scowl that would make the hardest of men shrink back in their seats. The Administrator did not shrink. She stared back with a matching intensity, nostrils flaring at the nerve of him for challenging her in this way.

He didn't know how many times they'd had this conversation. How much of it was for show, an old routine to dust off whenever the need arose, and how much of it was genuine anger.

The Administrator reached into her coat, deep into the inner pockets of the garment, and produced a folder. She held it out for Erik to take, but withdrew it when he reached for it.

“You may not want to share its contents,” she said, glancing at René. He narrowed his eyes and reached for the folder again. Again, she held it back. “Erik. Look at it first, before you decide. This isn't a game. This is a personal matter.”

He snatched the file out of her hand.

René resisted the urge to lean over his shoulder as he opened the front cover of the file. He glanced down the contents.

Erik blanched.

“What is it?” René asked, trying to peek at the first page. Erik slammed the file closed.

“You're certain?” he asked. His voice was barely more than a whisper and his eyes were fixed on the Administrator's face. She lit another cigarette.

“Positive.”

“What is it?” René asked again. Erik shook his head.

“ _Bitte,_ it is... it is personal. I'm sorry, I don't want you to-”

He swallowed, and looked down at the file in his lap.

“You don't want me to see it,” René said slowly. Erik shook his head.

“You'll need this,” the Administrator said, reaching into her coat again. This time she pulled out a simple white envelope, with a little cellophane window in the front. He took it with a shaking hand and read the few lines of printed text. René recognised the logo in the corner. It was an airplane ticket.

“Does Laura know?” Erik asked, looking up at her again.

“No,” she said, without a trace of malice. “Nor will she. She'll have other things on her mind, with the task I've given her. She won't have the time to worry where you've gone.”

“And what if she comes here, looking for me?”

“I'm certain she will, when she comes to collect him.” She nodded in René's direction again. He bristled at being spoken about as though he weren't in the room. “He can tell her you've left. Grown tired of the tyranny of domestic life. It wouldn't be the first time.”

“She won't believe that,” he said, frowning. “I wouldn't leave without telling her. I've never abandoned my family, Helen.”

“Not physically, perhaps.”

Her eyes gleamed coldly through the smoke that hung thick in the air. Erik looked back down the envelope.

“When does this flight leave?”

“Three days time.”

René blinked.

“You're going?” he said, turning to the man beside him. Erik nodded but didn't look at him. “Just like that? What happened to “there is no third option?””

“That was before-”

He laid his palm on the cover of the folder. René glared at him.

“And so you're leaving me. Because of that.” He jabbed a finger at the file. Erik looked at him sharply.

“I am not leaving you. Not the way you're making it sound. But this- this task is something that cannot be left to anyone else. I have to do this. But I am not leaving you, René.”

It didn't feel that way. It didn't feel as though they were staying together, in whatever capacity that meant. Erik was taking this job – this _secret_ job that he couldn't or wouldn't explain – without him. He was going someplace that René could not follow.

It _felt_ like he was being left.

“And what is to becomes of me?” he asked, turning to the face the Administrator once more. She was watching them with heavy eyes. But he was deluding himself to think he saw the smallest amount of pity in them. She took a deep breath.

“The girl will come to collect you, most likely. I've had her kept busy so that I could arrive here in secret, but she won't stay distracted for long. She's stubborn, Erik. And she gets it from you.”

Erik gave her the briefest of smiles. She took a final drag from her cigarette.

“I'd give her a week to find you. He'll be gone by then, all you have to do is put on a good enough show to dispel her suspicions.” She fixed him with a hard look. “Say that he's left you. Tell her he's run off to find his own way or further his own work. He's done it before, with far less provocation, it won't be a stretch for the imagination.”

René felt a coldness settle in his stomach.

“And if she doesn't believe me?” he asked numbly. The Administrator snorted unkindly.

“ _Make_ her believe you. I didn't hire you because you're a terrible liar. We've just seen how well you play the roll of the jilted lover. Use that. The girl has no time for sob stories, but a bit of well-placed anger is usually enough to throw her off.”

René nodded. If he opened his mouth he would scream.

This was too much. It was too close to home, too close to his past. Sitting in a well furnished room, being explained the details of a job he had no choice in, a figure much older and wiser than himself instructing him on the best way to manipulate his mark. It was all chillingly familiar.

This was the sort of life he had escaped. It was not the worst thing he had run from, but it was enough to put the itch in his legs.

If Erik had any thoughts of the amount of attention the Administrator had put into manipulating his granddaughter, he kept it to himself. He was looking at the file again. René didn't even think he was listening.

“Is there anything else?” he asked, trying to keep the hollowness from his voice. She glanced at the arm of her chair, where the ash had been accumulating all the while she'd spoken.

“Do not tell her I was here,” she ordered. “Tell her you have not seen or heard from me. When she explains the situation, act as though you're hearing it for the first time. You may have to do very little acting on that front, as I expect she'll tell you more than I have.”

He nodded his acceptance of the mission. She heaved a sigh.

“Good. Very good. That is one less thing for me to deal with, then.” She crooked her finger, beckoning one of them to help her up. This time it was René who was first on his feet.

“I've been here far too long,” she said, grunting slightly as he helped pull her too her feet. She was astonishingly light. He suspected most of her weight was in her coat as well.

Her thin fingers dug into his forearm as she clung to him, sharp nails biting in even though the fabric of his shirt. He led her toward the door, feeling as though he were half carrying her. Erik got up in time to hand her her hat, which she fixed low over her face, before the handle was turned and she was led out onto the porch.

The driver of the car remained standing beside it, looking indifferent to the chilly temperatures. He held open the passenger door as she was lowered into the back of the car. Before the door was closed, she caught Erik's wrist in her hand and pulled him down toward her. She placed her other hand on his cheek.

“Get rid of this,” she said, tugging briefly at the whiskers on his cheek.

She let him go and he stood up, and the car door was closed behind her.

They watched, standing side by side in the mud, as the dark car back slowly out of their driveway before turning back onto the lane and driving away. The watched until it disappeared over the hill, heading away from town.

Erik turned and walked back inside. When René followed him, minutes later, he found the study door closed and locked.

Hours later, he did not come to bed.

 

* * *

 

**Day One**

 

Breakfast was tense.

René had been unable to sleep. The bed they shared was too large and cold with only one body under the covers, even bunched up against the pillows as he was. He'd kept the door open, as an invitation and so that he could see across the hall. The door to the spare bedroom remained closed all night, and the light remained shining from beneath it. But he didn't hear a peep. Not a single sound.

Now Erik sat across from him at the table with dark shadows under his eyes and a permanent frown pinching his brows together.

He ate slowly. Distractedly. His mind was clearly elsewhere.

“Hm?” he responded, when René casually asked if he had any plans for the day.

“I asked what you're going to do today,” he repeated, trying to keep his tone light. Trying to act as though their life wasn't on the verge of falling apart. Erik shook his head.

“Ah, _nein._ I- I have nothing to do.”

René nodded, cutting into his eggs with the side of his fork.

“I thought I might go out,” he said. “Enjoy the countryside while the weather is still clear. I might drive to the other side of the lake, spend the day by the water. What do you think of that?”

 _I'd love to join you,_ is what he wanted the man to say. _That sounds like a nice way to distract ourselves. What time were you thinking of going? Let me get my coat._

Those were the words that didn't come. He knew they wouldn't.

“Please stay here,” Erik said instead, without looking at him.

He said it so softly. Almost a whisper that René might have missed if he hadn't been waiting, so intently expecting a response. He stared across the table, at the man asking him to stay.

“Alright.”

 

Erik did not shut himself in the study again.

He cleaned the house. Cleaned the bird cage, though he'd already done it the day before. He washed the dishes and scrubbed out the sink, mopped the floors, vacuumed the carpets and the furniture. He kept himself busy with scrubbing the grout in the tiles of the bathroom floor, and with dusting the cobwebs from the corners of the ceiling.

René followed behind, following his lead.

He swept off the porch. He washed the windows, inside and out. He washed the sheets and fluffed the pillows, and organised his books and the spice rack. He went through the fridge and the cupboards, checking for foodstuffs past their expiration date.

Their paths crossed briefly, when they were cleaning in the same room, but neither of them spoke. René wanted to talk. He wanted to think of something to say to alleviate this tension that hung between them, like a string ready to snap and slice into them both. But nothing that came to mind seemed good enough.

They both knew why they were cleaning.

This life they'd built was ending. The home they'd chosen and furnished and decorated, in a mad fit of hopefulness, would soon be abandoned. It was only right to clean it up. To wipe all trace of themselves from it, so the foundations of the place wouldn't be tainted by their all too brief habitation of it. They would never come back here.

That night they went to bed together. They lay on opposite sides of the mattress, back to back, neither of them speaking or touching.

Separately, they did not sleep.

 

* * *

 

**Day Two**

 

Erik handed him a photograph.

It was old, faded black and white with yellowed edges and folded corners. He took it carefully, and waited for the doctor to sit beside him before truly looking at it.

“This is where I'm going,” Erik said softly.

The photograph featured a group of men. Nine in total, standing in two disorganized rows, five in back and four in front. The uniforms they wore were familiar. Not identical, but recognizable enough for René's stomach to drop. He recognized the man in the middle of the front row as well. Frowning, with shorter hair and small round spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. René turned the picture over in his hand and read the date on the back.

_1934._

“This is your old team?” he asked, flipping the photo back over. Beside him, Erik nodded.

“It's been over thirty years since we disbanded,” he said. “I thought most of them would be dead by now. They weren't young men, nor overly cautious. But the file...”

He took a deep breath.

“They're back.”

So this was what the Administrator had given him. This was the information that had unsettled the strongest man René had ever known with little more than a glimpse of it.

He looked at the photo more carefully.

Erik was clearly the Medic, but he wasn't holding anything that remotely looked like medical equipment. There was an odd, vicious looking gun in his hand. Whatever it was it had no place in an operating room. It was a weapon. There was also a set of what looked suspiciously like grenades strapped to his belt.

On his right, with a cigar between his teeth and an unfriendly smile on his face was a man who could only be the current Engineer's father. The resemblance was striking. Behind him stood two tall men that René assumed were the Sniper and his predecessor. The old Spy's mask covered even more of his face than the balaclava and there was some sort of lens fixed over his eye. The uniform was less stylish, but more utilitarian.

To Erik's left was a man holding a pipe bomb as though it weren't an extremely explosive device, and beside him was another man in a mask holding what appeared a more professional version of a standard flamethrower. Behind them was a scowling man in camouflage face paint, and a man with a moustache barely concealing a cheeky grin. The Soldier and Scout, he assumed. It appeared things had not changed as much as he would have thought over the years.

In the center of the back row was the Heavy.

He was an enormous man. Broad of shoulder and with arms bigger around than René himself, there was nothing else that he could be. His sideburns were impressive. They framed a broad, distinctly unkind face. He stood behind Erik, one large hand resting firmly on his shoulder.

This was a dangerous group of men. René could see that at a glance, and it didn't comfort him.

“The old gang is back together?” he asked, in attempt to lighten the dread he could feel sinking into his heart. Erik nodded.

“I am to infiltrate their team,” he said hollowly. _“My_ team. I don't think they will be happy to see me.”

“You weren't close?”

“We parted on bad terms,” he said, and that was the end of that. René looked at the photograph again. The hard, cruel faces and casual heft of their weapons. He very much doubted any of these men could do anything on good terms.

“Will you be safe?” he asked, passing the photo back. Erik smiled slightly.

“ _Nein.”_

René covered his hand with his own.

“Come back to me.”

In bed, they closed the gap between them.

 

* * *

 

**Day Three**

 

René spent the day in a blind panic.

It was a quiet and contained sort of panic. Completely undetectable but for the shaking in his hands, and the way he jumped at every loud sound around him. He didn't remember eating breakfast, or lunch. He didn't remember how he'd spent the time other than checking the clock, over and over again, counting down the hours until Erik would leave him.

He didn't want to be alone.

More than anything, he did not want to be left alone in this house. All alone in a space meant to be occupied by two.

Erik stepped out for less than an hour to arrange for someone to take the birds off their hands – he was keeping Archimedes, his one constant companion, but the other three would be left behind again – and it was the most terrified René had been in months.

What if he didn't come back?

What if that was an excuse, to slip out while he was distracted and leave without saying goodbye?

What if something happened to him while he was out?

What if someone came while he was away?

What if-

And then the door opened, and the world went back on its axis. René used all of the self control he had left not to run into Erik's arms, hold him tightly and refuse to let him go, refuse to loosen his hold unless they were pried apart by force.

“You're back,” he said instead. A casual statement. It was the best he could do.

 

Before dinner, Erik went into the bathroom and shaved off the beard he'd worked so hard to maintain. René decided too late that he liked it after all.

 

That night, dressing down for bed, all pretense broke.

Erik caught his eye as he was pulling his shirt off and that was it. That was all it took. He lunged across the bed and kissed him, and kissed him, and pulled him down and kissed him some more.

They were both gasping in minutes, panting and swearing and writhing against each other, desperate to tear off what few clothes they had left. Erik stood up long enough to grab René's trousers by the waistband and pull them off, underwear and all. René put his arms over his head, holding to the edge of the mattress so he wouldn't go sliding off the bed with them. Erik draped his body over him, pressing them as close together as they could possibly get.

René wanted to be smothered. He wanted those hands and that mouth on every part of him. In his hair, on his hips, holding his arms and legs, around his throat, teeth sinking and tearing into his flesh.

Strong arms wrapped around his middle and they rolled together, and now he was on top.

“I want you,” Erik hissed, grabbing his jaw to pull him into a kiss that was mostly teeth. _“I want you.”_

René knew what he meant. He wrenched himself away to scrabble for the nightstand.

This was still new between them, this reversal of their usual roles. Erik had asked for this only a handful of times, and only since they'd come to this house. Since they'd been comfortable and safe and at home with each other. Only then did he allow this vulnerability. Only then had he surrendered any of his control.

That this was wanted now, of all times, spoke more than he would ever say.

“Say it again,” René begged, his fingers slicked by the bottle in the nightstand, working into him as slow and gently as he could. Erik let out a whine that shot straight through to his core.

“I want you,” he gasped. His legs spread wider, only to close around René's hips when he pressed closer. “René...”

He kissed him again, and reached for the bottle again.

This was always overwhelming. It was always too much, too hot, too tight. Erik's body was always warm, feverishly so, clenching around him and pulling him deeper in a dizzying haze. His arms shook trying to hold himself up. Erik's hand was on his hip, guiding him and urging him on, while the other shot above their heads to clutch at the bed frame. Something to hold on to, to stop him from shaking apart.

René buried his face in Erik's shoulder, and Erik sunk his teeth into his neck.

It was too fast and too rough, but this was all they could do. Erik arched beneath him, mouth open wide in a silent cry. René remembered himself and their talks long enough to pull out and come across his belly, a chorus of “I love you's” falling from his lips like a prayer.

They collapsed in a wreck. A sticky, sweaty, sobbing wreck of tangled limbs and messy hair, shivering on top of the sheets.

René didn't remember falling asleep. He remembered being warm, and held, and loved, and then the darkness took him.

 

He woke up alone.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i'm gonna be fucking around with comic canon. i don't like to disregard canon entirely when i write, but i'm less opposed to moving things around to suit my purposes. so if something major is doing kinda the right thing but not quite, it's probably because i meant it that way. :P
> 
> also, an apology to Nana for not using the translations you helped me with!! i ended up scraping the first draft of the chapter and rewriting the conversation that i was going to use them in :(


	3. Hospital Beds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so sorry for taking so long to publish this i really have no excuse

The sky was clear, and the sun burned bright through what little cloud coverage there was. The temperature had been rising steadily, evidenced by the little air vent over his head switching on and blowing his hair into his eyes.

Erik had always hated flying.

The act of flying, of being in the air, was not the problem. He hated the means of flight.

He hated airplanes.

He had vivid memories of being a younger man, reading about the first planes to take to the skies. The first contraptions to send men hurtling into God's domain, his father would have said. Fortunately, his father had not lived to see the days of aviation. It would have only been another point of argument between them.

Not such a short time later planes were zipping across state lines, and then the borders of countries. They were used in war time. They were means of transportation. And then they were weapons.

And now one of them was carrying him high over the land at an alarming speed while a little nozzle blew cold air at his forehead and a woman in a short skirt and a ludicrously small hat kept parading up and down the narrow aisle, asking him if he wanted anything to drink.

What he wanted was to be left alone.

It had been a mistake, to leave without saying goodbye.

He realized that the moment he boarded the plane, as soon as it was too late to go back and fix it. A clean break. That's what he told himself. It would only be harder to leave if they had a moment to say goodbye, to wish each other well and have to come up with parting, reassuring words. He thought, then, that it would have hurt too much to see the way René would surely look at him. The hurt and anger on his face as he walked out the door.

Now he missed that face.

There was a rough pencil sketch in the margins of his newspaper. Familiar eyes, a familiar nose, rough-cut lines of a jaw and hairline. He'd stopped when it came to drawing the mouth. He could never get it right.

The sketch stared up at him, sightless and silent, and only intensified his feelings of regret.

But it was too late now.

His flight had left at seven in the morning – after half an hour of lounging uselessly on the tarmac – and almost ten hours later the smooth voice of the pilot was telling them that they would be touching down around lunchtime, so watch out for the traffic if this was their final destination.

Erik rubbed a hand over his eyes. He was already feeling the jet lag. Another reason to hate flying.

Going through customs was a singularly unpleasant experience. He put on his best American accent and submitted to their questions about his business, how long he was staying, if he'd been anywhere else abroad in the last five years, the sort of immunizations he'd had. They asked about the bird, too, of course. He lied his way through the interrogation and left with a stamp on his falsified passport and a smile that dropped as soon as he was out of sight. He grabbed his bags from the conveyor belt – bags René had grudgingly helped him pack the night before – and collected Archimedes from the handlers watching over her. She, unlike him, had no trouble with airplanes. The dove cooed happily at him when he lifted the cover to her cage, ruffling her feathers to show that she was alright. He tipped the handlers, then headed out to find out if Helen had sent someone to collect him.

The man from the car was standing patiently, holding a sign with his fake name on it. Erik followed him out without a word.

It was the same black car, now with different plates, that had pulled up on front of his home three days before. His suitcases were stuffed into the trunk, Archimedes was secured in the front seat, and he climbed into the back.

The stench of old cigarette smoke was enough to make him gag. The car was hot, too, from sitting in the sun. When he tried to roll down a window he found them permanently stuck in place. Possibly because they were made of bulletproof glass. He asked the driver to turn on the air conditioning. Those were the only words he spoke to the man for the duration of the drive.

Texas.

She had sent him to Texas.

Erik thought it would be at least a decade before he returned to America. He'd grown used to travel, through more unsavory methods at least. Jumping in the backs of semi-trucks when their drivers were distracted, smuggling themselves into the cargo hold of a ship, one time they'd even managed to board a plane through the luggage bay. That had been a hot, cramped space that required them to lay practically on top of each other, sandwiched together for what turned out to be a three hour layover before a five and a half hour flight. They made the most of it. He smiled to himself, thinking of the ways they'd entertained themselves, their curses and cries drowned out by the roar of the engines-

But thinking of René made him sad.

This was the first journey he'd made alone in five years. To look over at the seat beside him and find it empty, to know there was an ocean between them and still he'd thought it best to leave without saying goodbye...

Erik closed his eyes, letting his head rest against the cool glass of the window. “Come back to me,” René had made him promise.

He was already sorry to have ever left.

 

* * *

 

Traffic was indeed as bad as the pilot had warned them, but the man driving the car had other ideas. He was adept at finding side streets and back ways, taking them off the main roads and out of the rush. Instead of sitting to wait at stoplights he cut through parking lots. Erik didn't know where they were going in the first place, but after forty minutes of sharp turns and backtracking and making three consecutive left turns, he was even having trouble keeping track of where they'd been.

He didn't know if they were being followed or if the driver was simply under orders to confuse him about the route to his destination. Whatever he was trying to accomplish, it was working.

It was one in the afternoon when the car turned down the street of an upscale neighborhood, lined on either side with old, ostentatious homes at least three times the size of the little house by the lake.

The garage door opened automatically as the pulled up the sloped driveway of one of the houses. Inside and out of the sun it took Erik a few moments of blindness before his eyes adjusted to the dark. The car engine switched off. The driver climbed out and opened his door for him.

“Downstairs, sir,” the man said, in a surprisingly high and unmistakably Australian accent. “I'll see to the bags.”

“Be careful with the bird,” Erik told him. He simply nodded, then gestured toward the door.

Erik climbed the two cement steps and opened the door to a completely empty, unfurnished house.

At first he thought there'd been a mistake. He looked back at the driver now unloading his suitcases from the trunk of the car to see if this was a joke, or a trap. Apparently not. He walked further into the house.

The floors were bare, expensive wood. The walls were painted a light, slightly yellow colour, to make the already enormous house look even more open. There were sheers over the windows preventing anyone from seeing inside, and a grand chandelier hung over the foyer, dark and gathering dust and cobwebs. There was a large staircase leading upstairs, which he assumed would be just as barren as the ground floor. He ignored it. The driver said to go down.

After a few minutes of searching he found the door to the basement.

The empty light socket sparked over head when he flipped the switch. He couldn't see what awaited him at the bottom. But if Helen had sent him here, then this was where she wanted him to be.

He descended the steps slowly, willing his heart to calm itself in his chest. Whatever he was walking into, he was more than capable of handling it.

At the bottom of the stairs, he encountered a locked metal door. Taking a deep breath, a small moment to steel himself, he knocked.

The door flew open, and he was grabbed by a pair of strong hands.

“Well howdy, Doc!” said an achingly familiar voice, at the exact moment Erik realized he was not being restrained, but hugged.

“Engineer?” he said incredulously, pulling away to get a look at the man. He almost didn't recognize him for the thick, impressive beard covering the lower half of his face. A familiar pair of goggles were pushed up onto his forehead, and the uniform overalls had been replaced with a dusty jumpsuit, but there was no mistaking the man in front of him. “What are you doing here?”

“This is my house, dummy,” the Engineer said, grinning broadly. “Well, one of 'em. Glad you found the place alright. How was your flight? Didja have any trouble at the airport?”

“ _Nein,”_ Erik said, still reeling slightly. “No trouble at all. What's going on? Where is-”

“She's in the back,” Engie interrupted, clapping him on the arm. “C'mon and say hi. She's mad enough you kept her waitin' this long.”

“It wasn't intentional,” Erik grumbled. He looked down at the hand on his arm, then did a double take. He grabbed the Engineer by the wrist. “Is that-?”

The hand he was holding was not made of flesh. Where once there had been flesh and blood there was now only metal. Springs where there should have been tendons, gears where there should have been metacarpals, complex wiring in place of a nervous system. Erik stared, and the Engineer beamed at him.

“A little something my grandfather designed,” he said proudly, flexing the appendage. It moved more fluidly than any mechanism had a right to, rotating smoothly and silently on the stump of his wrist. “He called it-”

“The Gunslinger,” Erik said at once, marveling at the thing. He smiled back at the surprise on Engie's face. “I helped to design it. Well, I say _helped._ All of the credit belongs to Radigan, of course, I was merely consulted on the process of connecting such a device to the human nervous system. Transistors?”

“Yup,” the Engineer said, smiling once more. “I shoulda figured you had something to do with this. I just fixed her up a bit, swapped out some of the parts for their modern components. But she works like a charm.”

Erik's response was cut off by a harsh, hacking cough coming from somewhere deeper in the basement. He and the Engineer shared a look.

“We can talk shop later,” the shorter man said, nodding back toward the direction of the noise. “She doesn't like to be kept waiting.”

“I am aware,” Erik said grimly.

Following Engie's lead, they moved out of the small hallway and into the basement proper. Erik could see just how large the place was, and how well furnished. All the accommodations missing from upstairs were present below. He could see paintings on the walls, shelves and bookcases, overstuffed armchairs with matching ottomans. Half of it was covered in plastic sheeting. Many of the doors were closed off, presumably housing even more furniture. Erik wondered if the Engineer was truly living here, squatting in the basement of a house he claimed to own rather than staying upstairs with the grand hardwood floors and marble counter tops. If there was a workshop down here, he wouldn't doubt it.

Then Engie pushed open another solid, heavy looking door, and that's when he saw her.

Helen was reclining comfortably on a low bed, wrapped in blankets and the same enormous fur coat she'd been wearing when last he saw her. Beneath one furry sleeve, he could see the plastic tubing of an IV leading up to the bag hanging by her bedside.

If she'd looked worn out before, now she looked practically on death's door.

“I thought I heard you stomping about up there,” she said sourly, her voice rough as sandpaper. There was a lit cigarette in her hand. “You certainly took your time.”

Erik moved carefully to her bedside, taking a closer look at the fluid being fed into her arm. It was golden-orange in colour, looking like a syrup of some sort. The room itself was much larger than he first thought; her bed took up only a small part of it, while the rest was filled with test tubes and filtration systems, beakers and vials stacked carefully on desktops. Copper tubing formed a bridge between two large vats. One table was covered by a thick sheet, whatever it was hiding forming noticeably lumps in its surface.

The setup was suspiciously, dangerously familiar.

“What is going on?” Erik asked, frowning as a he took a seat beside her. Helen coughed again, then immediately put her cigarette to her lips before glaring at him.

“I'm _dying,_ you fool, that's what's going on.”

He grabbed the cigarette from between her fingers and stubbed it out in the overflowing ashtray beside her. Her glare turned into a scowl.

“They can't possibly do me anymore harm,” she said. “Sixty years ago, if I'd listened to you then, perhaps that would have helped. You should have pushed me harder.”

“This is my fault?” he said softly, already knowing the answer.

“Of course it's your fault!” she snapped, and of course it was. “Running off like that, taking that brilliant mind with you and all the secrets locked inside. Leaving me with _nothing.”_

She reached for another cigarette and thwacked him weakly on the arm when he pulled the pack out of her reach.

“What is that?” he asked, nodding at the bag of fluid suspended above her. She snorted.

“Ask him. I've learned it's best not to ask too many questions on the matter. I don't always like the answers.”

Erik frowned again. He reached over and tugged up the sleeve to her coat where the IV was leading in.

The skin of Helen's arm had the thin, translucent quality only found in the very old and the very sickly. She was both. The needle was taped securely to her arm, holding the drip in place, filling the vein with that odd orange fluid. He could see it flowing up and into her arm, and down into her hand. It was a familiar sight. One he was far more accustomed to seeing in his own arm.

Erik looked toward where Engineer was fidgeting in the corner, trying very hard to appear casual as the leaned against the worktable. He was hiding something behind his back.

“What have you done?”

“Nothing I haven't told him to do,” Helen said, before Engie could even open his mouth. She pulled her sleeve back down. “And nothing that was not absolutely necessary. You were unreachable. Your work was not.”

Something clicked in the back of Erik's mind. A terrible little something. A conclusion he thought he would never have to reach, never in a million years, not after everything they'd been through. He pulled away from her.

“You gave him my formula,” he said. There was a ringing in his ears. “You gave- how could you? _How could you, Helen?_ How many years- how many lives have been lost protecting it, protecting _me,_ for all this time, and now you've just given it away!”

“I did nothing of the sort,” she sniffed, but turned away nonetheless. He wanted to shake her. To demand what weakness had possessed her to do this.

He rounded on the Engineer.

“What have you done?” he asked, again, advancing even as the man raised his hands. “What have you done with my work? How many buyers do you have lined up, or have you already sold it? Or are you keeping it for yourself, branding my life's efforts with your name, taking away _everything_ I have sacrificed for a fortune of your own?”

“Now, hold on-”

“He hasn't done anything of the sort.”

“Explain!” Erik shouted, losing his temper at last. “Explain why I am standing in a recreation of my laboratory. Explain to me exactly what you've done to her, and what you've told him. How do you explain all of this?”

He waved his arm broadly, gesturing at the setup on the tables, and at Helen's own prone form with a needle feeding into her.

There was nothing inconspicuous about any of this. There was nothing he couldn't point to and be unable to claim as his own. None of this was a mistake. None of this was not shaped by his touch.

“First of all,” Helen said, after a long moment of silence, “I have not given him anything of yours. Not your formula and not your equipment. Mr. Conagher is a bright young man, as I'm sure you've noticed, whereas you are a disorganized wreck. He found your notes. He brought them to me of his own free will.”

Erik frowned and turned to Engineer. The man still had his hands up, but there was a stubborn set to his jaw. He frowned right back.

“I went back to that old base we were hiding in,” he said, slowly lowering his arms back down by his sides. “When you were on the out, and still runnin' from that BLU Spy. We had to leave everything behind when they all showed up. You left all those notebooks we packed up, and some of your gear. I went back for it. I figured the worst thing for it would to fall into enemy hands, and it wasn't doing anyone any good just sittin' around gathering dust. So I handed it in. I may have, _ahem,_ looked through it all. Just a glance. Enough to get the gist of what sort of a thing you were working with. Took me a while to figure out your shorthand, but I had some other... examples.”

“Radigan's notes,” Erik said stiffly. Engineer nodded. “He is the one who taught me. I'm surprised he didn't teach you.”

The Engineer's jaw tightened again.

“I enlisted him to continue your work,” Helen said, finally getting a hold of her pack of cigarettes again. “Once it became apparent that I would not be able to subsist on the supply that I had left. And without you at my beck and call, the possibility of my impending mortality was rather more than I was willing to put up with.”

“So you finally replaced me.”

He didn't mean for it to sound so final. Or so accusatory. It had been a running gag between them, for decades, that they would one day tire of each other and seek greener pastures. Helen often threatened to find someone more obedient, and he threatened to find someone much easier to work with. Now that it seemed their prophecy had come to pass, neither of them were laughing.

“I did the best I could,” she said. She coughed as she exhaled. “And so did he, with the scraps you left behind. You have a terrible habit of not finishing what you start, Erik.”

He smiled. It was not a mirthful expression. He knew now which notebooks the Engineer had found. They spanned decades of work, filled with scribbles and half finished equations and formuli. He never wrote down the final product. He always left something open ended or unsolved, or missing a crucial component. Sometimes he would add incorrect information, specifically so that they would be nearly impossible to decipher if they were ever found. But now, looking at Helen's shrunken and shriveled form wasting away in a hospital bed, it wasn't hard to infer what had happened.

The Engineer had botched the formula. Several times, perhaps. And whatever substance being fed into her now was keeping Helen alive, but not sustaining her. She _was_ dying.

“Are you in any pain?” he asked her. She blew smoke in his direction.

“I am stable. For the moment. Coming to fetch you from that dismal little shack took more out of me than it should have. But I needed to come in person. You wouldn't have believed anyone else.”

“No, I wouldn't have.” He looked to the Engineer. “How much do you know?”

“More than you do, at the moment,” Helen answered. She gestured to the chair at her bedside, and the little end table next to it. There was a file sitting on it that he hadn't noticed before. Slowly, Erik crossed the room and sat beside her. He pulled the file into his lap and began to read.

“Your old team has come out of retirement and found themselves a new employer,” Helen explained, as he examined the first photograph he came to. It was taken from a security camera, black and white and slightly fuzzy. Eight old men traveling in a group, heavily armed and bundled up for cold weather. He knew them all. But he barely recognized them.

They were old now. Besieged by the ravages of time. Even in the still frame, he could see the difficulty some of them had with holding their weapons. Only one of them looked to be in fighting shape.

Erik's eyes lingered on the familiar, hulking form of the Heavy. Beside, and slightly behind him, was another hauntingly familiar face.

“Your father is with them,” Erik said, and saw Engie freeze.

“Yup.”

“Has he contacted you about this?”

“Nope.”

“You don't sound very concerned by that.”

“Is there a reason I should be?”

The smaller man had his back turned, but Erik didn't need to see his face to know that he was glaring. This was a sensitive topic, and he was clearly missing something. He decided to drop it, for now.

“Who do they work for now?” he asked, directing his attention back to Helen. She struggled with the heavy silver lighter in her hands. He didn't try to help.

“The same person who killed Redmond and Blutarch Mann,” she said, her words slightly slurred by the cigarette pinched between her lips. “He wasn't shy about taking credit for his atrocities. He calls himself _Grey Mann.”_

“Mann?”

“Don't make me repeat myself. He believes himself to be a third Mann brother.”

“That's impossible,” Erik scoffed. She coughed in agreement.

“I'm aware. I was there when the brats were born, and I can assure you that there were only two of them. Grey Mann is not who he says he is.”

“Then who is he?” he pressed, flipping more thoroughly through the file. There were lists of casualties, pictures of familiar buildings, now burned out and smoking. “Why is he doing this?”

“He was rather insistent about his identity. He may be delusional. He thinks Mann Co. is his birthright, and that the Gravel Pits are his for the taking. I don't know where he's been all this time or what he plans to do if he actually manages to gain power, and it doesn't matter. Who he is isn't important. He could be the King of England for all I care, it wouldn't help us stop him.”

“England has a Queen now,” he said distractedly. There was another photograph of a burning base, surrounded by snow covered mountains and grey, hazy skies. Coldfront. They'd finally burned it to the ground.

_Good._

“Do they?” Helen answered. “Well, good for her. The point still stands. He is an unknown, with enough power and money at his back to make him a significant threat. Everything else is secondary.”

“You want me to infiltrate his team,” Erik said. It was more of a statement than a question. He'd read the first file through three times, cover to cover. He knew what they'd been up to, and what sort of men they were now. He knew what kind of a mess he'd left behind all those years ago. Now, presumably, she wanted him to go back and fix it.

“Eventually,” Helen said carefully. “I suspect sooner would be more helpful than later. But that's not the most important reason for bringing you out of retirement, again.”

Erik hesitated, looking up at her as he would over the rims of his glasses. It was a habit he'd yet to break. But he was well used to Helen's games. To being sent running around in circles with one goal in mind while he was actually furthering another. He'd been preparing himself to go back into the field. He was ready for that and he'd made his peace with it. But now she had something else in mind.

Across the room, the Engineer had stilled in his movements.

“And what is the most important reason?” he asked just as carefully. Helen inhaled a great cloud of smoke.

“ _Me.”_

The smoke poured from her mouth and nose. Her eyes were fixed on him as he raised his brows in surprise. A claw-like hand reached across the bed and wrapped itself around his own, squeezing with a strength no one that frail had any right to possess. For the first time in a long time, he felt pain.

“You made me a promise, Doctor,” she said, not loosening her grip by an inch. _“We_ made promises. I've kept my word, every step of the way whether you believe it or not. You owe me a debt. You owe me a _lifetime.”_

She yanked his hand sharply and pulled him closer. She shook the sleeve down from her arm and pushed his own sleeve up to his elbow, putting their wrists side by side. The juxtaposition – healthy and strong versus thin and weak, thick knotted veins pushing up through the skin – was startling. Helen shook him slightly.

“You said yourself,” she hissed. “The serum runs in your veins. It is a part of you now. And thanks to you, you are a part of _me._ Finish that part, Erik. Finish what you started. Make me like you. Keep your promises, for once in your life, or I swear I'll drag you down to ruin right along with me. You're going to live forever, my old friend. _And so am I.”_

 


	4. Workhorse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i'm gonna stop promising to be better about updating and just start apologizing in advance because i'm awful and don't know how to manage my time responsibly

Two days was not such a long time. Forty-eight hours, two sunrises and sunsets. Two numbers on a calendar. It was not very long at all.

So why did it feel like years?

René was unaccustomed to being alone. Contrary to his chosen profession, he did not possess a solitary nature. The house he grew up in was always filled with people, coming and going, always laughing and shouting and making enough noise to be heard through the floors and walls. Even in his early days of spying, after he had escaped his life on the streets, he was almost never alone. There was a mentor or another trainee by his side, guiding him. The jobs he was given were infiltration work. He had a knack for accents and lowering the guards of people who should know better, only to stab them or steal from them once he was close enough. In all his years of espionage, he'd always worked closely with at least one other person. And with RED, working on a team with eight other people, he was lucky to ever find an undisturbed hour to himself.

And then there were the last five years.

Erik was always there. Always, no matter how close the quarters were or how dangerous it was to be seen together. Excluding things like food runs and bartering for accommodations, the two of them were never apart. Five years of being in near constant arm's reach of another person, and now he was alone.

René started the day just as he had started the two before it. He woke up and put his hand on the space in the bed next to him, making sure that it was really empty, and found it cold under his palm. He opened his eyes, again just to make sure, and let out a sigh. Then he pulled back the covers and slung his legs over the side of the bed, and made himself presentable as though there was someone there to present himself to.

He showered and shaved and combed his hair. He grabbed the wrong bottle of aftershave and pulled on a sweater that didn't belong to him and went to make himself breakfast. Maybe just toast today. Or cereal. He needed to use up the milk he'd bought, after all.

Cereal it was.

He ate and put out a bowl for Chat and did the dishes. Then he dried his hands and rolled down his sleeves, and stood in the middle of the kitchen trying to think how he was going to spend the rest of the day.

On the first day he'd curled up in the corner of the couch with a good book or three and let himself get lost in the fictional world of his choosing. The hours crawled by. And come night time with no more pages to distract him, the reality of the empty house came crashing back.

He left the radio playing to fill the silence as he slept.

Tried to sleep.

The second day was spent positioning himself around the house, doing a variety of tasks, in such a way that he was always in sight of the phone.

It was going to ring. He was so sure it was going to ring and Erik would be calling to say that he was still alive and hadn't fallen into some horrible trap. The phone was going to ring and a high, familiarly accented voice was going to chide him for doubting. He was going to explain. He was going to say where he was and what he was doing and explain in detail all of the reasons René didn't need to be worried about anything.

But the phone never rang. He checked the line, twice, just to be sure it hadn't been cut. And it hadn't. René went to bed that night with the door open, hoping to hear the phone ring in the early hours of the morning.

It hadn't.

Still standing in the kitchen with nothing better to do, and with the silence of the empty house pressing in on him from all sides, he decided to go for a walk.

He grabbed a jacket from the hook by the door and pulled it on as he was leaving the house. He didn't bother locking the door behind him. Didn't bother taking his wallet or anything with him. There wasn't a point to it.

It was another brisk summer morning. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and set off down the road.

Maybe he'd walk around the lake. Just to the bridge, at least. That would take up a good chunk of time and keep his mind off of things. He'd been neglecting his exercise for the past couple days as well. This walk would be a good way to make up for it. Get his pulse up, maybe help him shake off this fog in his head.

His feet carried him down the lane at a steady pace. He didn't walk toward town. There wasn't anyone he wanted to see and nothing that he needed from the store. And no doubt people would comment on his appearance, alone again, for the second time in the week.

_Alone._

He walked faster.

It felt good to get fresh air. It felt good to feel the light breeze on his face and in his hair. It felt good just to get out of the house.

_The empty house._

His foot caught on a pebble, but René did not stop.

He wanted to get a good workout. A proper bit of exercise that left his lungs and his legs burning. He was falling out of shape and he knew it. His waistline was thicker than it had been in his life, and he'd been slacking off on his cardio work. Getting too comfortable, he supposed. Too used to not having to rely on physical prowess to keep himself alive.

_Weak._

The sun was bright as it crested over the hilltops, even though the light cloud cover. René squinted and wished he'd brought sunglasses. He hated squinting. There were enough fine lines around his eyes, only getting deeper every time he looked in the mirror. It was the little wrinkles around his lips that troubled him the most. Brought on by decades of smoking, like little crinkly seams that formed every time he sucked on the end of a cigarette. The old woman who ran the house where he grew up was a smoker. She was fat and flabby, with sagging pockets of skin beneath her eyes and her chin. But the ways her lips puckered, and the way all those lines creased together like an accordion had always disgusted him. The image of her sneering face still haunted his memory after all these years. Unsmiling and unkind, and everything he hated and hoped never to become.

But here he was. With a soft, pudgy waist and fine lines around his mouth.

_Disgusting._

René felt a tightness in his chest that he told himself was simply from the exertion. It didn't make him feel better.

He walked faster.

He was forty-five. Not that old. Not that out of shape. He was in very good shape for a man of his age, actually. And if he was careful he would remain in such shape, or better, for as long as he was able. For as long as he was alive.

 _You're going to die,_ said an ugly little voice in his head that sounded too much like his own. _You're dying right now. An old man, rotting from the inside. You've past your prime._

_No wonder he doesn't want you._

René stopped in his tracks.

No.

Absolutely not.

He wasn't doing this. He wasn't going down this road again. He wouldn't-

_Your mortality is repulsive._

_Watching you age, watching the years pull away at your flesh must be so horrifying to watch._

_No wonder it was so easy for him to leave you._

René started walking again. He shook his head, felt the way his heart was hammering in his chest. He walked faster. He wanted to earn that speeding pulse. He wanted to leave the voice behind.

 _Of course he's tired of you,_ the voice said, as his feet quickened beneath him. _He's had his fun. You have nothing left to offer._

René broke into a jog.

His sides were aching within minutes. He didn't know where he was running to. Away. The shoes he was wearing weren't designed with running in mind, but they would have to do. They were enough. They had to be enough.

_Look at you._

_Worn out, already._

_Worn out, and all used up._

He was moving too fast to count as jogging now. He could feel the wind in his hair, and the stiffness flaring up in his back.

_Old._

_Decaying._

_Decrepit._

_Dying._

“Shut up,” he hissed through his teeth, to himself.

_Dying._

“Shut _up.”_

_Dying._

“Stop it!”

_Dying._

His feet were pounding on the ground beneath him. He didn't notice the transition from pavement to gravel to mud to grass. He didn't notice the slope of the ground. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut, a trick to tell himself that the stinging in them was only from the cold. If he just kept running, he could escape it. If he just kept-

_Why would he love you enough to stay and watch you die?_

René screamed.

The sound tore from his throat. A guttural, unintelligible please that choked off abruptly as his foot slipped on the damp grass. His legs tangled beneath him, and then he was falling.

He caught his weight on one arm, landing heavily on the wet ground, sliding a few feet down the hill he hadn't realized he was climbing. His knees scraped against the mud as he slid. He landed, finally, at the bottom of the hill and stopped moving, just laying there while he got his bearings again.

He was breathing hard. There was blood in his mouth from biting either his lip or his tongue. He couldn't tell which. It just hurt.

Everything just... _hurt._

René climbed carefully to his feet, standing and brushing himself off on the side of the road. His right side was completely soaked through and there would be no cleaning the grass stains from the knees of his pants. If anyone saw him on the walk home they'd either give him a wide berth or call the police. He'd rather nobody saw him at all.

Wiping the worst of the dirt from his palms, René covered his face with his hands and took several deep, steady breaths.

He was sorely out of practice at keeping his emotions in check. At keeping everything tightly bottled up, to be dealt with at a later time or ignored all together. A lifetime of training, slipping through his fingers in a matter of years. It wasn't something he'd needed to do as of late. There was no need to, in front of E-

He stopped. He did not want to remember that he was alone.

He turned around and started walking back to the house.

 

* * *

 

There was a car in front of the house for the second time in a week.

It was not the same black car as before. It was a sleek, grey little compact vehicle with American plates. The windows weren't tinted, letting him see that no one was inside. René slowed in his approach to the house. The front door was wide open.

And Miss Pauling was standing on his porch.

She had her back to the road and a small phone, much like the one Erik had hidden from him in the nightstand, pressed to her ear. She didn't see him approach.

“Come on, come _on,”_ he heard her muttering as he drew closer. “Just pick up... _Please_ just-”

“Laura?”

It felt odd to address her by name. They were never that friendly, and even after the last five years there had been no contact between them. But it got her attention. She turned around and nearly dropped her phone.

“Spy!” she cried with obviously relief. “Oh thank god, I thought you'd left or- or that I'd missed you somehow. Where the hell have you been? And what-”

She had rushed down the porch steps to meet him, and now stood staring with wide eyes at the state of him.

“Were you attacked?” she asked, her voice dropping, eyes immediately scanning the hills behind him. He shook his head.

“No. This is my own doing, I'm afraid. I tripped,” he added, in response to her concerned stare. She didn't exactly look reassured. He turned to the open front door. “You went inside?”

“Nobody answered when I knocked,” she said, keeping pace with him as he made to head indoors. “The door was unlocked, and I may have, um... gone through your things. Just to make sure you were both still here. Where's my- where's Medic? I haven't been to town yet, I thought it was probably best to just come straight here. If he's out and about we can take the car and go get him. A lot has happened, and I don't think there's time to explain it twice.”

René pressed his lips tightly together. The Administrator was right; she didn't know. She had been kept out of the loop as well, most likely told only enough to satisfy her curiosity. But other than that...

“He isn't here,” he said, as they crossed the threshold. Miss Pauling stopped.

“What do you mean he's not here?”

This was another way he'd kept himself occupied in the last couple empty days, planning some grand tale to tell Erik's granddaughter when she came calling. He'd never worked out the finer details. He didn't think she'd come so soon.

 _Make her believe you,_ the Administrator had ordered. A bit of well placed anger, she said. He could do that.

“You didn't know?” he sneered, as best he could as he peeled off his damp and muddy jacket. “And here I thought there was _someone_ he was close to.”

The shock on her face quickly morphed to hurt, and then anger. Her voice dropped to a formidable tone, made somehow more effective by the fact that she stood nearly a foot shorter than him.

“What's that supposed to mean? Where the hell is he?”

René shrugged, toeing off his mud-caked shoes.

“I wouldn't know. He didn't give me an itinerary when he was walking out the door.”

“Well is he coming back?” she demanded, following him into the kitchen as he headed for the sink to scrub the dirt from beneath his nails. Again, he shrugged.

“I don't believe so, no. He seemed quite through with me. And he took most of his clothes anyhow.”

“I saw the closets were pretty empty, but- what do you mean he's through with you? Did he- did he break up with you or something?”

René didn't answer. He turned on the water and reached for the washrag. There were little scrapes on his palms that he hadn't noticed before, and they stung when he put his hands under the stream. Miss Pauling made a noise behind him.

“Oh my god. This is ridiculous. He can't have just _left-”_

“Well he did. I assumed he would have told you his reasoning, if he couldn't bother to explain it to me. You are family, are you not?”

“Yes, we _are_ family. He's the only family I have, Spy. He _raised_ me, he's the only other person who actually knows what I do for a living, which is he why he wouldn't-”

The hurt came back full force.

“He wouldn't just _leave,”_ she said, a touch of desperation creeping into her voice that made René sick to his stomach. “He wouldn't go without telling me, he's- he'd never do that! He said he'd get in touch when he could, he told me not to worry-”

“And he told me he loved me,” René snapped. He turned the faucet off and rounded on her. _Make her believe you._ The venom in his tone was only partially an act. “He said those words to me every day until he got tired of the lie and decided it would be easier to simply stop pretending. He left me. He's left us both, it seems.”

“Did he leave a note?” she asked. “A- a code or anything, something to- How do you know he wasn't taken? Was he coerced or-”

“He packed his bags,” René said, and this was less of a lie. He pointed toward the front of the house. “He stood in that doorway, and he did not say goodbye. He was not abducted in the middle of the night or while I was out of the house. He walked out. He _left_ me. As I understand it, he has a reputation for abandoning his supposed loved ones.”

Miss Pauling opened her mouth and closed it abruptly.

She looked like Erik when she frowned. The same little crease between her brows, the way her nostrils flared just slightly. The way her lips turned down at the corners. René didn't want to see that. He didn't want to know, either, what exactly Erik had done to make her pause that way and consider his words.

“When did he leave?” she asked softly. Her eyes were far away.

“A month ago,” René lied easily. “Perhaps a little more. What does it matter?”

Her frown deepened, and so did the family resemblance.

“Because a week and a half ago the entire Company went on red alert. I thought...”

She turned her head abruptly and René saw too late the wetness of her eyelashes. He pretended not to see as she quickly wiped her eyes with the tips of her fingers.

“Did he say anything to you about where he was going?” she asked, and he took that as permission to face her again. He heaved a long-suffering sigh.

“He mentioned a project of some sort. Something better worth his time, apparently. But no. I don't know where he is.”

“Well. That's just-”

She laughed softly. A small, bitter sound that curled her lip into a half snarl.

“Perfect timing. He's always had such _perfect_ timing.”

“What is this about?” René asked, bracing to himself to feign surprise. “Why are you here? We left. We got out. I can't imagine what you'd need from us now.”

“An army of robots is taking over Mann Co.”

René stared. Perhaps he wouldn't have to feign anything after all.

“Did you just say-”

“Robots,” she repeated, nodding for emphasis. “Yes.”

“Robots.”

“Yes, Spy.”

“An army of them.”

“Please don't make me say it again.”

“This is not a prank?” he asked, more for clarifications sake than because he actually thought she would lie to him just to get a rise out of him. She didn't seem the type. Again, Miss Pauling nodded.

“The first wave was small. Barely a blip on the radar before they hit the Dustbowl fort. By the time our forces arrived there was nothing left but a pile of burning timber. And a lot of blood. And some body parts. But there was enough recoverable footage on the security cameras to get a look at what had caused the damage. It was definitely robots. And later, when they hit the Foundry...”

She glanced toward the sofa, then back at his stricken face.

“You might wanna be sitting down for this.”

 

The Mann brothers were dead.

The _other_ Mann brother had killed them.

And was now razing their empire to the ground with an army of androids.

The Administrator was missing.

Saxton Hale was missing.

The BLU Team was missing.

The Australium caches were empty.

The Company was in shambles, with more bases going dark every day.

And now, Erik was gone.

His old team was tied up in this. René knew that much, from what the doctor had told him, but he didn't share this information with Miss Pauling. He didn't tell her that the woman she'd been worried sick about for a fortnight had sat on his sofa less than a week ago, chain-smoking and demanding their help. He wanted to. But he didn't.

Her hair was longer. He noticed as he sat and listened, cataloging all the little signs of her aging as he did so. Just to reassure himself that he wasn't the only one.

Her hair was definitely longer, and the smile lines at the corners of her mouth were more pronounced. Truthfully he wasn't sure of her exact age. Somewhere between late-twenties and early-thirties. There was no grey in her hair and no lines around her eyes. Her features had sharpened somewhat in the last five years, around her cheeks and jaw, lost a little of the softness of youth. Like him, she was dying. And like him, she had been left behind. But he didn't bear the weight of a crumbling dynasty on his shoulders. He wasn't sure how much of that weight he could carry with her, if she would even let him. But it wasn't too much to try.

“You want me to become the Spy again,” he said, for the second time, and was more prepared for the answer. She gave him a hard look. Another knowing expression, too familiar on the wrong face.

“You _are_ the Spy,” she told him, sternly. “All I need you to do is put the uniform back on and be prepared to work with the old team again. There's not- you're not going to be paid this time, sorry, but I can set something up if any of us survive this, try and put in a clause so this doesn't happen to you again, but for right now I just-”

She took a deep breath, and he watched the way her small hands curled into fists at her sides.

“I need your help,” Miss Pauling said, looking hard at him over the horn rims of her glasses.

René lit a cigarette.

“When do we start?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> does this technically count as a cliffhanger. am i going to be yelled at again.


	5. Flaws

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another short chapter, sorry. they'll be getting longer after this.

“Stop fussing.”

“I do not _fuss.”_

“You are doing it right now.”

“ _Tch.”_

“Helen, if you don't hold still I will be forced to restrain you.”

“Erik, if you stick me with one more needle the next one is going in your eye.”

Erik sat back and pursed his lips.

This was always the level their conversations devolved to, if they spent more than an hour together. Bickering. Taunting and threats, ranging from mild to horrific. He'd forgotten, all these years apart from each other, how bad they could get. How they always brought out the worst in each other.

She was a terrible patient. And he was a worse doctor.

“Are you in pain?” he asked, as softly as he felt appropriate. Her glare was venomous. But it melted away almost immediately. Her shoulders slumped as the tension drained out of her.

“No,” she sighed. “No, I am not in pain. Perhaps if I were, I would actually be able to feel something. It's just tedious to lay here, watching you with your vials of drugs and blood samples and heaven knows what else. They'll be no blood left in me at this rate.”

“That would actually be healthier than your current condition.”

“I know.”

“The toxins in your bloodstream have only decreased moderately, even after the last two treatments.”

“I _know._ You've told me this.”

“I'm just making sure you understand your condition.”

“I would prefer not to,” she sniffed. “I don't care how this treatment of yours works, only that it does. And soon. I can hear the clock ticking, like that horrible alligator.”

Erik blinked, and then frowned.

“What alligator?”

“The one in that story,” she said, waving a thin hand dismissively. “With the flying children, and that horrid, incompetent little man. You know the one.”

He continued to stare at her. Then, something clicked in his mind.

“Peter Pan?” he asked, mildly incredulous. “Helen, are you talking about Peter Pan? The crocodile with the clock inside of it?”

She sniffed again.

“I knew it was a reptile of some sort. Something that should be made into a pair of shoes.”

Erik laughed.

“I took Laura to see the film in the cinema when she was very young. When did you see it?”

“It was a very dull weekend.”

“I find it remarkable that you're still able to surprise me, after all these years.”

Her expression soured once more.

“Don't be so sentimental. Some of us don't have the time for it.”

Her tone was mocking, but her words were truer than she may have realized. _Time_ was not something Helen would have very much of if he couldn't get her to a more stable prognosis.

The Engineer – _Dell,_ as Erik had been informally told to call him – had done his best with the information he was given. He'd followed the formulas and procedures in the journals to the letter, and extrapolated as much as he could where the data made jumps or was omitted entirely. Erik had left his notes purposefully vague, specifically so that others would have difficulty interpreting them, and therefore stealing them. He never counted on another person _needing_ to read them.

The formula Dell had concocted was close. It had provided some of the benefits of the serum proper, such as improved cardiovascular functions and sharpened mental faculties. But it was still incomplete, and flawed. The Australium had not been filtered properly, or broken down to its most base components. There was too much unrefined junk in the large dosage Helen had been given. There was buildup in her bloodstreams, and the risk for clotting was high. Not to mention the estimated amounts of certain chemicals the Engineer had thrown in, trying to replicate something he didn't fully understand. It was not enough damage to kill her outright. But it had upset the balance that decades of constant exposure to the serum had established. She was very sick, and very weak. Her immune system was compromised. And if Erik couldn't flush the toxins from her arteries, the risk of complications would only grow higher.

Looking after her condition was a full time job at this stage. Along with his other full time job of properly recreating the procedure he himself had undergone, effectively stopping his own aging and mental decay, he should have been exhausted. Dell was, though he'd never admit to it. But Erik had very little need for sleep. It was habit. A formality he indulged in more for René's benefit than his own.

He'd not slept in the entire time since his arrival to the states. There was a room set up for him, of course, but he used it only for storing his things. He ignored the bed entirely. It wasn't _his_ bed, and there was no one waiting for him in it when the sun went down. There was nothing for him there.

“I'm sorry,” he said out loud, and Helen quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Good. You should be. But what specifically is this apology for?”

This time she didn't struggle when he took her thin wrist gently in his hand, pressing to syringe to the crook of her elbow.

“For letting things come to this,” he said. “For allowing this to happen to you.”

She huffed.

“Don't take all the credit. It wasn't _entirely_ your fault, no matter how much easier that would make things.”

“I didn't think there would come a point where I had to leave you behind. Not again. But I should have prepared for it. At the very least I should have left something for you, should the worst occur. My own arrogance, I suppose.”

He pressed a cotton bandage to the injection site out of habit; the wound didn't bleed. Helen didn't call him on it, or his “sentiment.” But she was watching him with narrowed eyes. Clouded, dull eyes that had once been the brightest and sharpest thing in any given room she stepped in. They were sunken now, set in a sallow face, yet they were still the eyes that had fixated on him like a hawk observing its prey times beyond counting. They were still her eyes. Inside this shrunken, withered husk, it was still _her._

“I've been told there's a subtle difference between arrogance and confidence,” she said slowly, unblinking. “We could not have foreseen the events that led to your departure, Erik. Just as we could not have been prepared for the current debacle we find ourselves in. There was nothing to prepare _for.”_

She reached for her bedside table, where her pack of cigarettes would normally lay. He had removed them earlier, of course. Helen sighed heavily.

“It would be very easy for me to blame you for this. Very easy. But I don't. I yet have the sense to realize that would be unfair. Certainly in light of what you have done, and what I am asking you to do. You've never let me down. Not in any serious way. Not in a way that couldn't be salvaged. And we _can_ salvage this. I am not giving up on all that I've built, all the years and time and blood that I have poured into this venture. You have another part to play, my old friend. But as you said to me yourself, this time may be the _last_ time.”

Erik sat in silence, hanging on her words. Of course she wouldn't give up. She had never given up, not on anything in her life. He expected nothing less of her. And he would give her nothing less than his very best in return, whatever the cost. He owed her that much, after all she'd done.

“You still haven't explained what exactly you're asking me to do,” he said, packing away his kit. He'd brought everything to her bedside rather than expecting her to come to the little laboratory space that had been arranged for him. “I am to work with my old team, I understand that. But why? To what end? And what makes you think they won't attack me on sight?”

“You radiant good looks will surely stay their hand, dear,” she said drily. “That should give you long enough to convince them you'll be of use.”

“They know about the serum, Helen,” he reminded, frowning. “They know enough that my appearance should not come as a shock. They were my first true subjects, they are very possibly the only reason you and I are here today. What I did... that is not something I expect to be easily forgiven.”

She shifted slightly, moving the pillow that had been placed behind her back to prop her upright.

“They don't have to forgive you. They merely have to work with you.”

“And you don't think they'll be suspicious of me, turning up after all these years? They must know of my work with the RED company.”

“I expect they'll be extremely suspicious of you, which may be used to our advantage. It leaves room for you to prove yourself, get into their good graces. You may not need their trust, but you will need their cooperation.”

“How am I going to spy on them if they don't trust me?”

Her expression turned impatient. He was clearly missing something.

“I'm not sending you as a Spy, you fool. If I needed a Spy I would have given the job to your little flavour of the month.”

“Helen,” he said warningly. She waved her hand in dismissal.

“I don't need simple intelligence gathering,” she explained, as though to a dim-witted audience. “What I need are feet on the ground. I need first hand accounts of what they're doing and for what purpose. I need to know why they're attacking whole bases and tearing them down to the foundations. They've hit factories as well. They're looking for something. And you're going to get in there and tell me what it is. If they can be persuaded that it's to their benefit, you may also consider “upgrading” them, as you've done to your most recent colleagues. There's room for sabotage there. Also, they're down a Medic. None of my reports say they have a stand in to back them up should things go wrong. An opening's been left for you.”

“Left for me?” he asked. “What do you mean by that?”

If she had a cigarette she would have blown a cloud of smoke in his face.

“I mean that a new team has not been assembled from scratch. This Grey Mann has gone out of his way to procure and reform the members of your old team specifically. Not the former RED team. _Your_ team. And I believe that given the time he would have reached out to you as well.”

“You think all this has something to do with _me?”_

“What I think is that you have a job to do, doctor. And I suspect you will not meet as much resistance as you fear when you arrive to greet them. I've made arrangements, by the way. For the end of the week. A flight will take you back to New Mexico, and I have the name of the establishment where you will find them.”

Erik took a moment to register what she'd said.

“That's too soon. I can't leave at the end of the week, not if you expect me to have your procedure ready in time. The- the distillation process alone may takes weeks, Helen.”

“Well, you don't have _weeks._ You have _a_ week. Less than that. It's Wednesday, isn't it? Get it started. Mr. Conagher will see to the rest.”

Erik bristled.

“He will do no such thing,” he said hotly. “Even if I trusted him with your health, what do you expect me to do? Write out a recipe? Leave a detailed list of everything he got wrong the first time?”

“If that's what it takes, yes.”

“Need I remind you that he has already stolen from me on one occasion? I doubt he will refrain should a second opportunity come his way.”

Helen turned away from him.

“He wasn't stealing from you,” she sighed, drawing her arms close to herself. Erik stared at her. “He was stealing _for_ me.”

He blinked.

“ _Was?”_

“You said yourself you didn't have a fail safe, should the worst occur,” she said, as though it explained everything. “Well, I wasn't going to take that chance. You're only one man after all, brilliant though you may be. Mr. Conagher did not attempt to take your formula for his own personal gain, he took it because I ordered him to, should he get the chance.”

“You-” There was a ringing in his ears again. “You _ordered_ him to steal my formula? In the midst of everything going on, you thought _then_ was the best time? And what would you do if you obtained a sample, simply reverse engineer it to create more?”

“Yes. For personal use.”

“And how long would that last, I wonder,” he said. “Before personal use became private research, and then public distribution.”

“Do you honestly think I would want this power given to the public?”

“I think if you could find a way to rationalize it into a business decision you could convince yourself to do anything.”

“What was I supposed to do, Erik?” she snapped, turning to face him fully again. “The worst case scenario was your death. And if you had died, where would that leave me? If you ran – which you did, I may point out – I could simply track you down again – which _I_ did, eventually – but I'm afraid I don't have the time to go chasing you to Hell and back.”

She paused to glare at him.

“Your life was in danger. And if I couldn't save you, no matter how much I tried or how much it cost me, I was at least going to save your work. I was, at the very least, going to save _myself.”_

In the ringing silence that followed her outburst, Erik heard the furnace hum to life down the hall.

She was right. Of course she was right. He couldn't fault her for being better prepared than he was, and while he had yet to truly forgive the Engineer, but he couldn't begrudge the man for his efforts. Not when it nearly cost him his life. And yet... Experience had made Erik very protective of all his research. Paranoid, even. And he had a right to be. But for all their struggles and conflicts, for all the arguments and battles they'd had, Helen had never wronged him. He owed her the benefit of the doubt.

But he didn't have to like it.

“I will do as much as I can for you before I leave,” he told her quietly. Were she anyone else, he would have reached for her hand. But that was never the nature of their relationship; such closeness was not permissible. “And what I cannot finish on my own I will leave for Herr Conagher to see to. Most of it is simple monitoring, waiting for the mineral compounds to- waiting for everything to settle down, as it were. You will have to be patient. It's a delicate process, but he is a very capable man. I believe that everything will be alright.”

She huffed halfheartedly.

“I've never known to be an optimist, doctor.”

“I'm not,” he said, smiling slightly. “But there can be no harm in hoping, can there?”

She was silent for a long moment.

“No. There is no harm in that.”

Erik looked down, away from her and at his hands.

Hands that had accomplished so much.

Perhaps he was going soft. Being able to trust another so readily, accepting her arguments with little arguing of his own. But he had been given his orders, had he not? He would have to leave. He would have to trust another, for her sake. Surely it couldn't be so hard.

“I want to talk to him,” he said, still without looking at her, but he could feel her eyes on his face.

“I don't see what's stopping you. He's got to be down the hall somewhere.”

“Not him.”

Helen paused for a heartbeat, then sighed.

“You know you can't do that.”

“I want to be able to contact him. If not to let him know where I am and what I'm doing, then to at least let him know that I'm alright. And- and to know that he is alright.”

“You're very attached to this one, aren't you?” she said, but there was none of the usual malice behind the question. Curiosity. Perhaps even pity.

When he didn't answer, she sighed again and brought a hand up to rub her temple.

“I won't make any promises, but I will see what I can do for you. On the condition that you will be careful.”

“Of course I will.”

She snorted.

“Isn't that what you said the last time?”

 


	6. Chasing It Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> actually gonna be getting into the meaty bits of the story now that (most of) the exposition out of the way. yay.

All things considered, it was a nice little motel. No roaches in the tub. No bedbugs or grossly identifiably stains on the sheets. It was no five star establishment, but it was the cleanest place they'd stayed at so far.

René had excused himself to the bathroom to give Miss Pauling some privacy as she unpacked and dressed for bed. It was a single room, with a single queen sized bed they'd rented under the names Mr. and Mrs. Bellamy; husband and wife. It was an uncomfortable ruse, given the actual nature of their relationship. But it was the easiest to get away with without too many questions or curious stares. She would have the bed to herself, anyway. This establishment was well-furnished enough to provide a small loveseat. His bed for the night, out of respect.

He stared at himself in the mirror. Dressed down to his briefs and undershirt, with two days of stubble on his jaw. It wasn't a very handsome reflection. Then, he looked at the large paper bag on top of the toilet.

René had been ignoring the bag ever since it was handed to him, as he was climbing out of the car in the parking lot of the very first motel they'd stopped at. It was not a very heavy bag. Its contents were soft to the touch and easy to smush into a smaller, more manageable shape. He knew he shouldn't. But it made him feel better to stuff the thing beneath his seat where he couldn't see it or think about it until he had to.

Well, now he had to.

In the morning they would be crossing the state line into New Mexico. Miss Pauling was to drive her little grey car to the top secret base she'd established, and then they would get to work. She told him some of his old teammates would already be there, but did not elaborate further. He didn't know who or how many of his former colleagues would be waiting for him, but he knew one thing.

As of tomorrow, he could no longer be René. That was the not the name they knew him by, or ever would know him by.

He was the Spy.

The paper bag was wrinkled and so were its contents, but he pulled them out anyway. Set them carefully on the edge of the sink while he tried to remember how it all went.

First the trousers. Pinstriped and flared in a way that was no longer fashionable, he didn't know if they were a new pair or if he had simply remained fit enough to wear them after all these years. He pulled them up his thighs but stopped short of fastening them.

The shirt was next. White and no longer crisply pressed, not after the way he'd handled it, the fabric was rougher than he remembered it. But it was definitely his shirt. There were faint pinkish stains all inside the collar, from where the fabric dye had rubbed off and ruined it no matter how many times tried to wash it out. Now he pushed the tails into the waist of his trousers and buttoned it to all but the topmost buttons.

Next came the mask.

René had been silently dreading this moment. He knew it would come. It was only a matter of time. But no matter how much effort he put into preparing himself, he still didn't feel ready.

He fished around in the brown paper bag until his hand closed around what he was looking for. Slowly, as though handling a venomous snake, he pulled the limp piece of fabric out into the light. He smoothed a hand through his graying hair, combing it back from his face and flattening it as much as he could against his scalp. Then he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and pulled the mask over his head. Just as he'd done a thousand times before. Just as he knew he must get used to doing again.

When René opened his eyes he no longer recognized himself.

There was a picture in his mind of what he looked like as The Spy. A cunning, dashing rogue. A slim cut figure in a suit. A man of mystery, alluring to those who wished to know him but never could.

Now, he was confronted with a cartoon burglar.

An embarrassing caricature of a criminal and saboteur wearing his face with the same tired expression and the dark, deep circles under his eyes. He was thirty seven years old the first time he put on the suit and mask. It felt like a lifetime ago.

He felt more claustrophobic by the second as he tucked the edges of the mask beneath his collar, letting it lay flat around his throat. The man in the mirror – his own reflection, he had to remind himself – watched him all the while, glaring. Looking more like some cheap, knock off Bond villain than Bond himself. It felt like a trap. Like looping a snare around his own throat, sealing himself inside the shell of a man he used to be. Unknowable and untouchable, after so many years of having every inch of himself known and touched by another. The walls he'd spent a lifetime building had been worn away, but their shadows remained. An illusion. Mirages in the sand, keeping only the most skittish of invaders at bay.

Then came the tie. The thin strip of red silk, elegantly knotted and pushed snug against his Adam's apple. A garrote by any other name. Following it, finally, came the jacket. The final seal to his cage. He buttoned it and smoothed down his lapels and stood back to get a good look at himself.

Everything was where it should be. Almost.

He reached into the paper bag once more and found his gloves at the very bottom, pulling the leather over his thin fingers and flexing them experimentally. Then he reached for his shaving kit. Gloved fingers dipped into the bag and emerged with a simple, familiar folding blade. He'd carried it with him all these years, keeping it safe. Using it when he had to. Now he slipped it into the special inside pocket of his jacket where it belonged.

René knocked softly on the bathroom door before exiting, stepping out only when he heard the equally soft voice telling him it was alright.

“Took you long enough in there,” Miss Pauling said, not looking at him. She was rifling through her suitcase, dressed in a pair of modest pajamas and a light robe. Her hair was loose about her shoulders, but her glasses remained perched on her nose. When he didn't respond right away she glanced up. Her eyebrows raised.

“RED Spy in the bathroom,” she said with a small smile, straightening up. There was a book tucked into the crook of her arm.

“Did I always look this ridiculous?” he asked, holding out his arms for emphasis. She looked him over.

“Honestly? Yeah.”

René snorted.

“Good to know, thank you.”

“You know we're not leaving until morning, right?” Miss Pauling asked, pulling back the covers to climb ungracefully into the bed. She sat cross legged at the head of it. “Don't tell me you're planning to sleep in that.”

“ _Non,_ of course not. I was merely...” He shifted, uncomfortably aware of his bare feet on the shag carpet. “I just wanted to try it on again, before we had to rush. I'm surprised everything still fits as well as it does.”

“The rest of your suits are back at the base, so don't worry about ripping that one or getting blood on it. We have spares.”

“Thank you. I suspect they will come in handy.”

“Mhmm.”

She watched him as he walked over to the loveseat, pulling out his own pajama pants – the only pair he owned; he'd become very used to sleeping in either his clothes or in nothing at all – and placing his suitcase onto the floor. He turned and headed back toward the bathroom to change again.

“You don't have to sleep on the couch, you know,” she said, looking at him over the rims of her glasses. “I trust you better to think you'd try anything, Spy. And it's going to be a very long day tomorrow, so you might as well get a good night's rest.”

He hesitated in the bathroom doorway.

While relieved to hear that she thought better of him than that, that wasn't the issue. The offer of a warm bed was a tempting one, and he didn't doubt that the day would be a long one. But he didn't want to feel the warmth of another person beside him, only to roll over and remember that it wasn't Erik.

“The offer is appreciated,” he said carefully, “but I'm afraid I must decline. The couch will serve well enough for me, _mademoiselle.”_

Miss Pauling looked at him for a moment, blinked, then tucked her feet beneath the blankets and cracked open her book. She paid him no more attention.

When he came out of the bathroom, undressed and smelling of toothpaste, she had turned her bedside light off. There was a pillow and an extra blanket waiting for him on the sofa.

 

* * *

 

René barely noticed when the smooth drive of the blacktop turned into the gritty, bumpy drive of off-roading.

His arm was thrown dramatically over his eyes to block out the midday sun beating down on them. He was sprawled in the passenger seat, head resting uncomfortably between the head rest and the window, allowing him to stretch out as much as he could in the small car.

He had not slept. Not well. He'd fallen into a deep sleep just as the sun was rising, and it was all too soon before a gentle hand was shaking his shoulder and telling him it was time to go.

He deeply regretted not taking the bed.

Miss Pauling drove, as she was content to do in the days before. They'd taken ship across continents and arrived on the East Coast of the United States, and they'd spent the last three days on the road heading steadily West. He took the wheel on occasion, when there were long, flat stretches of road and Miss Pauling looked on the verge of collapse. He'd never learned to drive stick, so the mountains and cities were more her area.

But now there was nothing but desert. Sand, and mesas, and hot, blinding sun. The car's air conditioning was not enough to combat the blistering heat of early summer. He could feel how hot the glass was against his forehead. He didn't want to ever get out of the car, and at the same time he wanted to be literally anywhere else.

“We're almost here,” Miss Pauling said, startling him. René lifted his arm enough to get an eyeful of sunshine and groaned pathetically. She laughed. “You might want to straighten up, if you want to make a good first impression.”

“They've seen me in worse states,” he mumbled. But she was right, of course. It wouldn't do for his colleagues to see him like this after so long apart. It was bad enough that his suit was wrinkled. The least he could do was sit up straight instead of slouching like a petulant child on a road trip.

René couldn't help but feel nervous. Not only of what his teammates would think of him, but of what he might think of _them._

Had Soldier finally snapped and completely lost his mind? Would the Demoman still have all his limbs, or at least partial sight in his one remaining eye? Would Scout have grown up at all, or would be still be the same insufferable brat he'd been when they first met? Would the Sniper still live in his van?

And what of Pyro?

He knew the necessity of them all coming back together. How could he not when the Administrator herself had shown up on his doorstep. But he didn't relish the thought of another endless, relentless war.

They would ask about Erik. Where he was. When he was coming. Why they hadn't arrived together. René had put a lot of thought into what he was going to say on the subject. He'd kept his lies to Miss Pauling simple for his own sake, all the easier to remember them by; Erik had left him weeks ago without an explanation or a goodbye and René was supposed to be very bitter about that fact. He could play bitter very nicely. He certainly wasn't going to tear up in front of any of them, nor did he expect any sympathy. Whatever they knew or thought they knew about his relationship with the doctor, it wasn't something he expected them to be all that concerned about.

But there would be questions about what they were going to do without a Medic.

René looked out the window and for the first time focused on his surroundings. They were not, as he previously thought, in the desert. The car appeared to be rolling down a weather-worn, pothole riddled street in a poor residential area. There were rundown houses on either side of the street. Yellow, overgrown lawns and boarded up windows. Most of the houses looked abandoned. He almost missed one set of curtains jerking shut as they rolled past.

“Where are we?” he asked, turning in his seat to look back at the apparently occupied house. Miss Pauling's knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

“Somewhere no one would think to look for us.”

She drove to the very end of the street, where the houses were older and spaced further apart. There was a modest two story home with a large enclosed garage that had clearly been added onto it in more recent years. The house would have been a very attractive home if not for its obvious abandonment. Dirty windows stared like great, cloudy eyes from the second floor. The path leading up to the covered porch was choked with weeds, and René could see a rusted child's tricycle half hidden in the tall grass. Miss Pauling pressed a little button clipped to the sun visor and the garage door jerkily slid itself open just as they turned into the drive.

An oppressive silence filled the space left by the car's engine once it was switched off. Without the air condition, the air was immediately sweltering. There was another, larger vehicle parked right next to them, a truck of some sort that filled most of the large garage. As René climbed out of the car the door began to close behind them, slowly plunging them into darkness.

“Get all your stuff,” Miss Pauling said, pushing onto her tiptoes to reach the string attached to the dangling light bulb. “The fewer trips the better.”

René obeyed and grabbed both of his bags; his wheeled suitcase and the black duffel bag packed with all the essentials that Erik had left him. He hadn't brought much. Part of him regretted not grabbing Chat and stuffing him into the car as well, but that was a foolish notion and he knew it. He was going to war. There was no room for cats on the battlefield. The little thing would be better off without him.

Miss Pauling fumbled with her keys for a moment before stepping up to the padlocked door into the house. It burst open as soon as she unlocked it.

“IDENTIFY YOURSELVES!” bellowed a familiar, unmistakable American voice. René straightened up from the trunk just in time to see the barrel of a shotgun aimed in his direction. Soldier's face immediately split into a grin.

“Spy!” he shouted joyfully, vaulting past Miss Pauling and wrapping René – no _Spy,_ he had to be the Spy now – in a crushing bear hug. Spy sputtered and struggled as he was lifted clear off the ground in the other man's arms. “Good to see you, crouton!”

“Put me down, you imbecile!” he hissed, pushing at Soldier's shoulders. Soldier beamed up at him.

“Aw, I knew you missed me.”

“Fer cripes' sake, let the man breathe!”

Spy looked up as he was lowered to his feet, surprised to see Demo staring back at him. The Scotsman had put on a noticeable amount of weight since last they'd seen each other, by Spy couldn't deny that he looked both happier and healthier as he leaned against the door frame. Miss Pauling was covering her face with her hand.

There was a muffled squeal, followed by the squeak of rubber, and then a streak of red was pushing under Demo's arm and past Soldier, and suddenly Spy was in the air again.

The Pyro was weeping openly beneath the mask as they spun Spy around, ignoring his protests and Miss Pauling's calls for everyone to settle down. Soldier was grinning like he'd just won the lottery and the Demoman was of no help, cackling in the doorway as he was.

By the time he was finally put down and released, Spy was laughing too.

“Are you quite finished?” Miss Pauling asked, trying and failing to hide her own smile. Spy made a point of fussily straightening his suit before following the others into the house, lugging his bags behind him.

The inside of the house was only half as shoddy as the outside, but it was obvious that the place had been abandoned for years. Dusty cobwebs hung in the corners of the ceiling, and there was a thick layer of dust over every surface, made all the more obvious in the places where it had been disturbed. The trash looked new. Empty potato chip bags and packages of gas station powdered donuts, several open tins of beans, cans of sugary soda, what looked like wadded up napkins. If his teammates had been left alone during the whole time that Miss Pauling came to fetch him, he didn't doubt that all of the mess belonged to them. There was also an ancient television set with various piles of pillows and blankets on the floor around it.

“Just leave your things by the door for now,” Miss Pauling said, bolting the garage door behind her. “We'll have to rearrange some rooms, probably, but you'll have someplace to sleep tonight. Soldier, is there any food left.”

“Negatory!” Soldier said, snapping to attention. “We have been out of food for two days!”

“Pyro's got some goodies they won't share,” Demo said, and Pyro tilted their head in such a way that Spy got the impression they were sticking out their tongue, if they had one. Miss Pauling sighed heavily.

“Alright then. So we need groceries. Make a list, you guys, and I'll see how much money we have left. _No ice cream._ If it can't be kept in a cooler, it's off the list.” She looked to Spy apologetically. “The refrigerator isn't working. There's electricity and running water, but that's about as far as the utilities go.”

“It's no trouble,” he said, eying the bean tins. He wondered what the upstairs looked like if the rest of the house was in this state.

“Hang on,” Demo said, looking between Spy and the locked door. “It's jus' you then? The Doc's not with you?”

Spy stiffened.

He heard Miss Pauling suck in a breath. All at once the atmosphere in the room changed.

They'd discussed this at length in the car on the first day of their journey. Miss Pauling had launched a volley of questions which he'd answered as best he could, and by the time they arrived at their first motel the subject had been dropped. He was not eager to bring it up again.

“ _Non,”_ Spy said, as evenly as he could. “He is not.”

“Well, when's he getting here?” Soldier asked, missing the point entirely.

“He isn't,” Miss Pauling said, holding her purse very tightly. “The Medic is currently unaccounted for.”

“But I thought the two'a you were...” Demo made a vague but explanatory hand gesture in Spy's direction. Spy's lips tightened.

“We were.”

Demo's eye widened in understanding. His expression turned sympathetic, and Spy turned away.

Miss Pauling's phone began to ring.

She excused herself to the kitchen to answer it while Spy continued to stand there, bags on the floor by his feet, fighting the urge to cross his arms defensively over his chest while his colleagues stared at him. Soldier was looking between them with a puzzled yet troubled expression on his face, and Pyro had plopped back down into the blanket nest in front of the TV.

“There's not much to drink,” Demo said, shuffling his feet. “But I've got a bottle'a something tucked away, if you like...”

The offer was appreciated. Spy opened his mouth to decline, but never got the chance.

“Change of plan!” Miss Pauling said, hurrying back into the room. Spy fumbled as she shoved another brown paper bag into his hands. “We have to go right now. Go put that on, and there should be a jacket or something you can put over it.”

“We're going out?” Soldier said, his face lighting up at once. Spy couldn't help but wonder what had happened to the usually dour, aggressive man to make him so cheerful. But his expression fell when Miss Pauling shook her head.

“Just me and Spy for this one, Soldier. You're staying here.”

Soldier, Pyro, and Demo all made noises of protest.

“We've been cooped up in here for a week!” Demo said, and Pyro nodded enthusiastically as they climbed back to their feet. “We've got no food and no room to stretch our legs! Give us a break, lass, come on!”

Miss Pauling looked on the verge of arguing. Then she sighed.

“Fine. You know what, you're right. Demo, take the van and the emergency cash, there's a Food Mart a couple miles away. Take Pyro. Shop responsibly and don't call attention to yourselves. Be back before nightfall, alright? We won't be getting back until late, so don't forget to lock the doors and make sure all the windows are shut. Soldier... You can come with us.”

Soldier put both fists in the air and shouted in what might have been celebration. Spy looked at the new bag in his hands in confusion, and then to Miss Pauling.

“And where are we going, exactly?”

She sighed heavily, but there was a small smile on her face.

“To Scout's arraignment hearing.”

 

* * *

 

Spy didn't want to know how three plane tickets to Boston, Massachusetts had been obtained so easily and on such short notice. They flew coach, crammed together in a row, and hurried out of the airport as soon as they landed. A car was waiting for them at the curb, identical to the little grey vehicle they'd left back in the New Mexico garage. Spy was beginning to think this was all an elaborate joke.

The courthouse was packed.

They'd arrived almost just in time. It was a public hearing, so they had no trouble getting in and find their seats. Spy was without a mask again, dressed in a sheriff's uniform beneath his heavy coat. Miss Pauling had explained the plan to him on the five hour plane ride. She and Soldier sat in the row behind him. Of the three of them, Spy was the least likely to be recognized by the boy.

Though perhaps _boy_ was no longer an acceptable descriptor for him. It had been five years, after all.

Scout was led in in handcuffs and the standard orange jumpsuit of a county jail. His no doubt state appointed lawyer was a short, reedy looking man in a suit much too large for him. Spy turned his face away from the aisle as he passed, but Scout looked far more preoccupied with the dark haired woman sitting in the front row behind the defense table. When she turned her head to smile reassuringly at him, Spy could plainly see the raw, purple bruising covering almost the entire right side of her face. He could also see the family resemblance.

The judge called for order, and Spy sat back and listened to the testimony.

Scout had beaten a man half to death with a baseball bat.

The plaintiff was still on the hospital and therefore absent from the proceedings, but his lawyer was ready for with a list of demands.

The prosecution wanted to charge Scout with attempted murder. They argued that the boy had a long history of violence and had never gotten along with the victim – his mother's boyfriend, if Spy was hearing things correctly. The judge looked more inclined to agree with the defense; in light of the plaintiff's recorded treatment of the defendant’s mother, this was not an out of the blue attack. Scout was provoked. Two of his brothers were also involved in the altercation, but he was the only one to pick up a weapon. From where he was sitting Spy had a clear eyeline to the dark haired woman that could only be Scout's mother. She spent much of the proceedings staring down at her clasped hands, rotating her simple wristwatch whenever things got too descriptive. Scout himself remained silent until it came time for the charges to be laid.

“Nathaniel Kelly,” the judge said, leaning forward to look through her notes. It took Spy a moment to realize she was addressing Scout. “You are charged with one count of aggravated assault with a deadly weapon on the night of the fifth of June, at seven thirty P.M. against the plaintiff, Mr. Daniel Barrett Jr. at his place of residence. How do you plead?”

“Guilty,” Scout said, at the same time his lawyer said, “Innocent.”

Scout looked at the man in disgust.

“The fuck you talkin' about, innocent,” he said loudly. “You're damn right I beat his ass, look what he did to my Ma!”

“Counselor, please control your client,” the judge said, sounding very bored. “There seems to be a bit of conflict here. Mr. Kelly please state for the record, how do you plead?”

“Guilty,” Scout repeated at once. “And I ain't sorry.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kelly, that will be all. Next!”

The gavel banged and Scout was led back down the aisle. His mother reached for him as he passed, but his handcuffs prevented him from reaching back.

Miss Pauling and Soldier had disappeared from their seats behind Spy. He turned his head as Scout passed him again, then stood as followed as soon as he could.

He made a note of which direction the officers escorted Scout towards before ducking into the men's bathroom and shedding his jacket. He left it tucked behind a toilet bowl and locked the stall behind him, easily hoisting himself over the wall into the stall beside him and exiting the bathroom.

This would have to be fast. Miss Pauling asked for no bloodshed in this rescue, so it was either grab him from the courtroom or try to get him from jail. Court seemed the easier option.

In his disguise as an officer of the law, Spy moved easily through the facility. No one stopped him or asked for his badge when he strolled into the restricted area, toward where the holding cells were kept. He passed only one other officer on the way; one of the men who'd led Scout in and out of the courtroom. Spy picked his pocket with ease.

There were two occupied cells on either side of Scout's own. Neither of the men occupying them paid any attention to the officer with the keys, stopping at the cell of the boy who'd only just been put in there.

“Out,” Spy ordered, careful to hide his accent with the single syllable. Scout shot him an oblivious glare but complied nonetheless. Spy took a special pleasure in cuffing his hands behind his back.

“What now?” Scout asked, mouthing off as only he could. “You gonna make me to back and apologize or something?”

Spy grabbed his arm in a vice like grip and steered him away from the doors leading back into the courthouse. They walked in silence for a few steps before Scout noticed the direction they were heading.

“Hey buddy, the judge is that way.”

Spy pushed him to keep walking, faster, as they passed another occupied cell. There was an emergency exit at the end of the building, if only they could get there before anyone caught wise. Scout was making things difficult.

“Hey,” he protested, trying to pull away. _“Hey,_ what's the idea?”

“Quiet.”

“Where're you takin' me?” he asked, struggling harder. Spy could see the neon EXIT sign now.

“Somewhere only slightly more pleasant than prison,” Spy said quietly, dropping the false accent. “With much poorer company.”

Scout stopped dead in his tracks.

He turned with wide eyes to stare at the face of the man leading him down the hall. Scout had seen him unmasked before, once and only briefly, but recognition flickered to life behind his eyes.

“Spy?” he said disbelievingly. And then, louder, “Holy shit, _Spy?_ Wh- what are you- what the hell's going on-”

“I'll explain later,” Spy cut him off. “Keep moving before someone misses you.”

“You're breaking me outta jail?” Scout said, completely unable to keep his mouth shut in his excitement. But he picked up the pace and stopped struggling. “Oh my god, I thought you an' the Doc retired or something, I mean we thought you guys were dead!”

Spy frowned at the mention of Erik, his eyes scanning over the wiring around the emergency exit. There was an alarm, of course. Simple to disable. But this would have to be fast.

“Be ready to run,” Spy murmured as they neared the door. There was a camera pointed squarely at them. Scout saw it too and nodded. When they were right in front of the door, Spy looked straight up into the camera.

It was off.

Experimentally, and throwing caution to the wind, Spy pressed down on the handle to the door and pushed it open about an inch.

No alarm sounded. He didn't know if he should laugh or slap his face in disbelief.

“Come on,” he said, throwing the door open the rest of the way and pushing Scout outside. A few steps away, parked beside the dumpsters, was a little grey car. Soldier waved enthusiastically at them from the back seat.

“Is that-?”

“Yes. Get in.”

“You gotta be freakin' kiddin' me.”

“Hello, Nathaniel!” Soldier said, as soon as the door was open. Scout swore loudly as Spy put a hand on the back of his neck and shoved him into the car after uncuffing him, right into Soldier's waiting arms.

“It's _Nate,_ alright- no, jeezus, Scout. Just stick to Scout, got it? Is one'a you gonna tell me what the hell is going on?”

“Get out of those clothes,” Spy said, quickly shimmying out of his disguise jacket. He threw it into the back seat and started the engine. “Put that on. You'll stand out less.”

Scout did as he was told with minimal fuss, unzipping the orange jumpsuit and bunching it down around his waist rather than trying to take it off entirely. Spy drove slowly out of the alleyway to the front of the building.

“Where're we going?” Scout asked, rubbing at his wrists.

“Miss Pauling will explain,” Spy told him, letting the car idle at the base of the courthouse steps. Scout's gasp was audible.

“Pauling's here?”

“She should be, any moment now.”

Right on cue, Miss Pauling appeared in the open doorway. She hurried down the steps and climbed into the passenger seat with a smile on her face.

“Let's go,” she said, stuffing something in an envelope into her purse. She turned in her seat and flashed a grin. “Good to have you back with us, Scout.”

A pretty pink blush appeared on Scout's cheeks and quickly spread to the rest of his face.

“Y-yeah. Good to be back with you. Guys. Back with you guys.”

Looking at him in the rear view mirror, Spy smirked. Scout gave him the finger.

Just like old times, then.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for those of who follow me on tumblr you might've seen my little crisis over what to name Scout. well i literally picked it by googling the most popular boy's names in Boston, and also because Scout's voice actor is called Nathan and i guess it just really fit for me?? so. i tried. i honestly might change it later, so don't be alarmed if you reread later and there's a different name in its place.


	7. Volatile Times

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT NOTICE!!
> 
> i have added a significant portion of writing to the end of this chapter. originally i was going to split everything into a two-parter, but after writing it i found that there wasn't enough material to justify a separate chapter devoted to it. so i added it here.
> 
> sorry for any confusion caused

Helen's condition was improving. Slowly but steadily the colour was returning to her cheeks, her eyes were a little clearer each day. Erik had done all he could for her now.

Engineer had found him slumped over his desk, finally pushed beyond his limits by the constant stress and lack of the sleep. He was not asleep when the blanket was draped over his shoulders, but he would not begrudge the man for his kindness or embarrass himself by confessing that he was awake. When he was alone again, Erik got soundlessly to his feet and made use of the bed provided to him for the first time since he arrived.

Now he didn't know what time it was. He didn't know how long he'd been asleep, or if the light shining through the thin curtains was sunlight or from the streetlamp outside.

His first, foolish instinct was to put a hand on the space in the bed beside him.

It was empty, of course. But feeling it, finding the blankets cold and covering nothing but bare mattress threatened to bring up all the pain and regret that he'd been pushing down ever since he climbed onto the plane.

He missed René. Missed him terribly.

Erik sat up and rubbed a hand over his face.

He'd fallen asleep in his clothes, and in his shoes of all things. He was still wrapped in the blanket Dell had brought to him, not having bothered to actually climb under the other blankets on the bed. He shrugged it lazily from his shoulders, getting unsteadily to his feet and taking a moment to stretch the stiffness from his muscles. He wasn't as sore or fatigued as any other man of his age – his _perceived_ age – would be, but he'd pushed himself a little too far this time. The rest was well deserved.

With his arms over his head, blinking at his surroundings, Erik noticed something out of place. Rather, something that hadn't been there before.

There was a cardboard box sitting on top of his desk.

He frowned at it. Slowly he lowered his arms and walked over, keeping a hesitant distance between it and himself. It could be a trap. He hadn't asked for anything from Helen or the Engineer, certainly nothing that would arrive in so large a container. It was sealed with packing tape, and there was a smudged shipping label printed on the side. _New Mexico_ was the only thing still legible. Curiosity outweighing caution, Erik picked a scalpel out of his pen cup and carefully slit open the tape. He pulled back the cardboard flaps and stared at the contents of the mysterious box.

With reverent hands he reached into the box and pulled out a worn, familiar white coat. He stared in disbelief at the thing, holding it out in front of him that it might unfold to its full length. Then he draped it over the back of his chair and went digging back into the box.

Boots, jodhpurs, vest and tie, even a spare shirt. It was all here. All packed neatly away, sealed until he might make use of it again: his uniform. The garb of the RED Medic. With a quick glance at the closed door, he quickly stripped out of his day old clothes and started to get dressed again.

He grabbed a fresh undershirt before pulling on the white uniform shirt. The starch was off it and it was wrinkled from being folded for so long but it didn't matter. Little electric sparks of excitement danced through his fingers as he pulled on the musty but so familiar pieces of clothing.

The trousers were comfortably high-waisted and his boots fit like a dream. Years of use had molded them to his feet, settling at just the right amount of “broken in.” He had to tighten his belt a few notches past the older, well-worn holes thanks to his past years of lean eating and increased metabolism. It made him smile, taking a moment to pause and admire himself in the mirror Engineer had been kind enough to provide in his little room. Had his shoulders always been so broad? Had he always posed such an impressive figure, or was the serum having slow acting, long term effects on his body that he had not foreseen?

Perhaps he was being vain. It wouldn't be the first time for someone to accuse him of such, but shrugging on his vest, buttoning it flat across his own toned chest and drawing himself to his full height, Erik couldn't help but be pleased with his appearance. He had been a handsome young man, once upon a time. Perhaps not all of that was lost.

Tying a tie was supposedly like riding a bicycle – which, coincidentally, was one of the few things he never learned how to do – once you knew how, you never forgot. Erik ran his fingers over the smooth strip of plain red silk, wondering idly if this was the same tie he'd fashioned into a simple, nameless knot and used to tie René's wrists to the headboard, all those years ago. He'd gone through a lot of ties in those early days, from stretching them out or fraying from friction, or simply tying them incorrectly and needing to cut them off. He'd gotten better at it since. But the memory still made him smile. He looped the tie around his neck and knotted it into a smart half-Windsor against the hollow of his throat before tucking the trailing ends away beneath his vest.

The coat was the final touch.

Erik had gotten to offer some input when it came time to design uniforms for the third Gravel War. He didn't have free reign of course, and he knew that whatever he come up with the BLU Medic would also wear as well. He went simple. Professional. Boots for utility, tie for appearances. But the coat was whimsy.

He shook the dust from it now, admiring the way it flapped and flowed in his hands. It was a lab coat, a distinctive image that clearly said “man of science.” But it was impressive, too. Unmistakable from a distance – an advantage to his enemies and allies alike, unfortunately – and simply a nice touch when up close and personal. Erik loved the coat. He loved it the first time he put it on, and he loved it now as he slid it over his arms and buttoned it closed. He could feel his heart rate increasing, preparing for the battle that the process of suiting up had mentally conditioned him for. On a whim, he checked the bottom of the box again. The sight of its contents made his face split into a broad grin.

Thick, red rubber gloves snapped up to his elbows, and then the transformation was complete. He stood back to truly look over himself in the mirror.

He was The Medic.

That was the one truth that he could never escape. Certainly not as it stared him down in his own reflection. The costumes before had been preliminary, almost experimental, while he sought to adapt and evolve, to become a better version of himself. He stood tall, and the tails of his coat trailed behind him like the wings he'd grown into.

Erik was the name of a younger man. A kinder man. The years had made him many things, but _kind_ was never one of them. The Medic was who he was meant to be, and who he was always destined to become. His heart soared to take up the mantle again. To return to his roots, and his calling.

He felt free.

His moment of self-adulation was interrupted by a low whistle behind him.

“That brings back memories,” Dell said, grinning as he leaned in the door frame. Erik immediately dropped his pose, embarrassed to have been caught in the first place.

“How long have been standing there?” he asked, busying himself with folding his discarded laundry. Dell shrugged.

“You've been decent the whole time, so not too long. She thought you might wanna get right into that, as soon as you found it. Everything still fit?”

“Quite well,” Erik said, unable to keep a note of pride out of his voice. “The years have been kind.”

Dell chuckled.

“I'm sure the kindness of the years has very little to do with it.”

Erik smiled.

He'd mostly gotten over the lingering distrust he felt toward the Engineer. The man had apologized several times for his past transgressions and more than made up for his crimes with his efforts with Helen. It wasn't difficult for Erik to let things go. But he had very little options at this point. Someone needed to finish his work. Someone needed to be able to see it through while he could not.

“I noticed some tension,” Erik said, choosing his words carefully, “when I first arrived, and brought up that I would be working with your father again.”

The Engineer's jaw tightened tightened slightly, but the man said nothing.

“Is there something between the two of you that I should know about.”

“I don't reckon it's really of your business.” Dell crossed his arms over his chest. “But I suppose if you're going to be dealin' with the old man you might as well get the gist of it, so you don't make a fool outta yourself goin' around and asking him questions. Not that you'd get much out of him anyway. I'm guessin' you're aware he isn't exactly in possession of a very talkative nature.”

“Ah, _nein,”_ Erik said, smiling slightly. He remembered the former Engineer, Radigan's son, as a practical, taciturn man with little time for idle chatter. Not when there was work to be done. And there was always more work to be done.

“He and I haven't spoken in... _whew,_ goin' on fifteen years now. We had a falling out, on account of him disapproving of and being disrespectful toward my wife and her family. And then again on account'a me being willing to work with Mann Co., and comin' to work for RED instead of following the family tradition with BLU. Not that I had much say in that, of course. I went where you went, Doc.”

Erik blinked at him.

“ _Was?”_

“She never told you?” Dell jerked his head in the direction of the hall, indicating that he was speaking of Helen. “Apparently my grandaddy put a clause in the family contract, one of the under the table ones that the Manns themselves never got to see. Us Conaghers have to stay close to you, for as long as we're with the Company. Something about loyalty, and keeping all the eggs in one basket. You made an impression on the old man. Pity nobody ever told than to _my_ old man.”

Erik still didn't understand what Dell was telling him. Radigan had contractually bound his descendents to work on the same team as him? Why? And why had he never been told any of this?

“I've been disowned,” the Engineer said with a bitter grin, distracting him from his thoughts. “Written' outta the will and all, though I've got some people working on that little problem. Not that he'll be on his way out any time soon, if he has his way.”

“I am sorry,” Erik said after a moment. “It was not my place to pry.”

“No harm done. Just don't get your hopes up about talkin' to him about working with his son. S'far as he's concerned, he ain't got one.”

Erik paused. Unfortunately it was not difficult to imagine the senior Conagher resorting to such drastic measures after a disagreement. He was always a man of extremes. Extreme brilliance, extreme temper. Extreme violence. But it was hard for the doctor to wrap his head around the idea of any man simply giving up on their son, and walking away from the bond that had been so cruelly ripped from his own grasp.

“I met you, you know,” he said, clearing his throat and the past from his mind. “When you were very young. Not old enough to remember me, I would wager. Your mother was waiting with you at the train platform when we were all preparing to go on leave. There were several interesting minutes of “pass the baby” that very nearly made us miss the train.”

The Engineer blinked slowly at him.

“I do remember,” he said, frowning slightly. “I think. A little. I remember Momma getting' us both all dressed up, and I remember a lot of big people tryna hold me at once.”

“You started crying,” Erik said, smiling. “At a very impressive volume for such little lungs. Your poor mother spent ages trying to calm you down.”

“I'd almost forgotten that,” Engie chuckled. He looked down, an odd expression crossing his face. For a moment Erik thought he'd done the wrong thing, by not letting the memory lie. But he understood as soon as Dell opened his mouth.

“Rosie's in Florida with her grandparents. Diane- my wife's family, I mean. I sent them off a couple weeks ago, for their sake, y'know? Wanted 'em far away from this mess. It seemed like the right idea at the time, keepin' 'em out of harm's way but now I-”

He took a deep breath the likes of which Erik had taken many times in his own life.

“I miss 'em,” he said, shaking his head. “And I know it's better for her, not knowin' what I do, not knowin' what kinda man her Daddy really is but I just... I feel like I'm missing out. I keep worrying I'm gonna come home one of these days and she's gonna be all grown up and not know who I am anymore. I call when I can, just to hear her voice, but it ain't the same. It just ain't the same.”

His jaw clenched tight, and Erik saw the bob of his throat as he swallowed hard. In two easy strides, and crossed the room and put a hand on the man's shoulder.

“You will do right by your family,” he said seriously, pulling the handkerchief from his breast pocket and offering it gently. “There will be difficult days, but this is the nature of the work we must do, to keep them safe, and to make this world into a better place. For their sakes. You are a better man than your father by far, Dell. You have not abandoned them.”

The Engineer looked at him in shock. It was the first time he'd addressed him by name, truly, and likely the first time he'd heard him speak so kindly. It was not something he had much practice with. But there were certain words a man needed to hear, and at the very least he could offer that comfort.

After a moment Engie nodded and patted him gratefully on the arm. He waved away the kerchief, but Erik saw him drag the back of his knuckles across his eyes.

“Thanks, Doc,” he said, a bit tightly. “I, uh- thanks. Almost forgot what I came in here for. She wants a word with you, soon as you can spare it. I... I've got somethin' I need to work on, if you'll excuse me.”

Erik let the man go to save himself embarrassment. He remembered those feelings of doubt and guilt, heavy clouds that hung over him for years, only serving to push him harder and drive the distance between himself and his family farther and farther apart. But it was worth it, in the end. He had to believe it was worth it.

Helen was clearly waiting for him when he made his short trek down the hall.

“I've always hated that coat,” she said as soon as she caught sight of him in uniform. “It's ridiculous. It makes you look like one of those damned birds you're so fond of, which I don't doubt was intentional. I'm at least glad to see it all fits you.”

“How many times must I tell you not to smoke,” he said, plucking the cigarette from her fingers and pinching it out. She huffed a lungful of smoke at him.

“Until I die, and you have no one else to derive of simple pleasures.”

“ _Pst.”_

“Don't you shush me,” she snapped, pointing a gnarled finger at him. “I'm in no mood for it today. I hope you haven't unpacked, because there's a car waiting up front for you.”

“Where am I going?” Erik asked, eyebrows raised.

“To work. Finally. I've had enough of you slouching around this basement, hovering over me and your work like a menace. The car will take you to the current base of operation for your former _former_ team. They should be just inside.”

“And you expect me to just walk in?”

“Yes.”

“Do I have a backup plan in case this all goes horribly wrong?”

“No. And I don't believe you'll need one. You are reasonably clever, and more resistant to physical damage than most. You should persevere.”

Erik's lips quirked into a smile.

“You seem very eager to get rid of me, Helen.”

She sighed heavily, as though his continued presence caused her actual physical pain. For all he knew it might have.

“What I am eager for is this trouble to _end._ You being out there, away from me with your needles and potions and god knows what else. You're wasting your potential and you're driving me crazy.” She waved her hand back down the direction of the hall. “Go and get your things. The car will wait forever if I tell it to, but you're being very rude.”

Erik gave her a hard look, half expecting her to deflate and apologize. He'd seen and heard her do strangers things in this passed week. But she did not. And showed no signs of doing anything of the sort. He turned to go.

“Wait.”

With great effort, Helen leaned over to her bedside table and reached for the padded, unlabeled envelope that lay there. Once she got her hands on it, she held it out to him.

“For emergencies,” she said simply, the distaste evident on her face. He took the envelope and peered inside. Then, he tipped the contents out into his hand.

A phone.

Sleek and discreet, and smaller than he was used to, but a phone nonetheless. No doubt one of the newer Australian models. But he understood what it was for. He understood exactly the importance of what she had given him. And the risk.

“ _Danke, meine Freundin.”_

“On your head be it, Erik,” she warned, and lit another cigarette.

 

* * *

 

The car dropped him a block and a half away from his destination, for security's sake. But he found the place in no time at all. A modest but fairly upscale hotel, far too empty for this time of the year. It was tourist season. The place should be packed.

Erik did not speak to the woman behind the counter in the lobby, and she did not speak to him. He set his bag on the counter and looked at her. All she had to do was nod her head in the direction of the door to his left, leading to the dining area. That was all he needed to know.

In the few steps that it took to cross the lobby, he tried to prepare himself for what he knew he would find inside.

They could not know him as he was now. Not these men, with whom he had shed enough blood to fill lakes. They could not see how the years had softened him, little though they had. They couldn't know of his life and how much it had changed in the decades since last they'd spoken. It would be a weakness to be honest. It would be a weakness to be _weak._

They knew him as a monster. So a monster he would be.

Erik closed his eyes, and took a last, deep breath.

Medic exhaled and opened the door.

The clamor died down slowly, very slowly, as he walked into the establishment. Conversations trailed off and came to a halt. Laughter died away. Seven heads turns to follow him as he crossed the room, keeping his steps measured as he walked toward the bar. He kept his eyes forward. On the back of the big man still drinking at the counter.

The big man had broad, well defined shoulders and a mane of thick grey hair tied back with a bandana. Medic remembered when that hair was even thicker, and longer, and the colour of rust. He looked larger the closer Medic got to him. It was strange, to no longer be the tallest person in a room.

The Heavy looked at him from behind tinted goggles as Medic eased onto the bar stool beside him. It was a slow, measuring look. One of easy recognition.

“Scotch,” Medic said to the nervous looking man behind the bar. He kept his eyes carefully forward. After the glass was poured, the Heavy spoke.

“So,” he said in a voice like gravel. “It's true.”

Medic sipped his scotch and set it neatly back in front of him.

“What's true?”

“You're here, aren't you?” The Heavy shifted in his seat, turning his massive bulk to face Medic directly. “Looking like that. So it's all true.”

“You are going to have to elaborate, _mein Freund.”_

The Heavy knocked his drink off the bar. It hit the ground and shattered behind the counter, and Medic did not flinch.

“I'm not your _friend_ ,” the man growled, leaning closer. Trying to tower over him, and make him feel small. It was not a particularly effective trick. “Not after what you done to me and my boys. Not after the way you trussed us up like lab rats and snuck out when the water got too hot. You knew what you were leaving us to, you goddamn snake, while you got off scot-free. Now you think you get to just come waltzing back?”

Behind him, Medic heard the scape of chair legs and the rattling of glasses as the men started getting to their feet. The bartender had disappeared.

He made a point of turning slowly. Starting at the hip, then his shoulder, finally turning to face the hulking giant leaning over him. It was a calculated move to show that he was not threatened, not by a single one of them. The Heavy's lip curled in anger when their eyes met through the tinted plastic.

“You seem in good health to me.”

The Heavy lunged at him with a roar.

Medic was out of practice, but his reflexes remained sharp. He dodged the first blow – a wild haymaker – and countered the second, more precise blow. The points of two fingers dug deeply into the Heavy's collar while he caught the man's arm with his other hand, driving his thumb into the crook of his elbow. He kicked out hard and quick against the inside of his opponent's knee, and the Heavy went down with a grunt. Half kneeling on a twisted knee with one arm gone numb and the other held out in agony, he was rendered almost helpless in a matter of seconds. Medic remained seated. Now it was his turn to lean it and tower over.

“ _I am still stronger than you,”_ he hissed, squeezing his thumb deeper into the Heavy's ulnar nerve, shaking his arm slightly for emphasis. He could feel the eyes of the others on him. Seven men, all standing now, waiting for the orders from their leader. One of them. Medic didn't know if it mattered which after so many years. But he very pointedly did not loosen his grip.

A tense silent pulled taut over the room, threatening to snap with each passing second it went unbroken. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Nobody was breathing.

Then, the Heavy smiled.

“You son of a bitch,” he said, clapping Medic hard on the arm as the doctor helped him to his feet. “You haven't changed a goddamn bit, have you?”

Medic returned his grin with a thin lipped smile. The tension bled out of the room, replaced with something too subtle to be unease.

“More than you know, _Kamerad,”_ Medic said. The Heavy grimaced as he eased back onto his bar stool. He waved a massive, dismissive hand at the men still gathered around them.

“Relax,” he ordered. “He's still one of us.”

The words sent a chill through through Medic that he took great pains to cover up. He remembered all to well what it meant to be one of these men, to be at the head of such a team. His former – current? – RED team liked to bemoan the brutality of their work, and the high price they paid for their paychecks and the whimsy of their employers. To be blunt, they had no idea what they were talking about. And part of him sincerely hoped they would never find out.

“Lemme get you another drink,” the Heavy was saying, as the men moved slowly back to their seats. He banged a fist on the counter hard to enough to make it rattle. “ _Bartender!_ Hey! Can we get some goddamn service out here!”

The nervous bartender pushed through the curtain so quickly he nearly fell over.

“Two fingers of whiskey for the doc,” the Heavy said, clapping a heavy hand on Medic's shoulder, looking him over with undisguised curiosity. His goggles were not so opaque as to obscure his eyes completely and Medic could follow them easily as they roamed his face and body. “You're in better shape than the last time I saw you.”

“No thanks you to,” Medic replied, smirking slightly. He watched the bartender's hands shake as he poured.

He remembered vividly the last time they'd seen each other. The rain drenching his clothes, mixing with the blood already soaked into his skin. The screams behind him. The curses. He remembered limping, and the ache deep in his ribs. But he never stopped. Never once looked back.

The Heavy grinned at him now, ever wider, and the thirty years between them spanned only seconds.

“You got good timing, Medic,” the man said, the only one to ever address him by his proper title. “We were getting ready to give up on you. Got our orders to ship back out tomorrow.”

“You were expecting me?” he asked, remembering Helen's warning. He drank half his whiskey in one swallow.

“'Course we were. The Boss said you'd be back. I didn't necessarily want to believe that, but he writes the checks. We've been stationed here a week, waiting for you to get your ass in gear and turn up. Glad you finally did.”

“Your boss?”

The Heavy gave him a measuring look.

“Don't try to play the fool with me here,” he warned, but there was still a trace of a smile on his face. “You wouldn't be here if you didn't know what was going on, now would you?”

Medic sipped his drink.

He glanced behind him, paying attention for the first time to the other members of his former team. They weren't staring openly at him now, but he could feel their focus directed at him. The Spy and Soldier were seated together, gesturing rapidly, deep in conversation by the looks of things. The Scout, Demo, and Sniper had a table to themselves, all drinking quietly, lounging in a more comfortable manner than their fellows. The Pyro and Engineer were seated on opposite sides of the same table, not speaking or looking at each other. Neither had a drink in front of them.

Old men now, all of them. Grizzled and gnarled. All of them save him.

“The years have been rough,” the Heavy said, following his gaze. “For some of us.”

“Rougher than you might think.”

If the Heavy was annoyed with him for not rising to the bait he didn't show it. And he was not a very subtle man.

“You're gonna have to talk to the Boss,” he said seriously, turning to wave the bartender over again. “If you plan on staying. He'll be pleased to have you here, but he made it clear there needed to be a discussion before your involvement got finalized.”

Medic sipped his drink.

“And what about you?”

“What about me what?”

“Are you pleased to have me here?”

His voice dropped to a softer tone, less likely to carry to the nearest table. It was a far too familiar tone. One that Erik had become accustomed to using often in the last five years, with another, very different man.

But he wasn't Erik anymore. Not today.

The Heavy paused with the rim of his glass less than an inch from his lips.

“We'll see.”

 

* * *

 

 

The elevator was cold.

The entire building was cold, for such a nice establishment. Medic would have thought they'd be able to maintain a decent thermostat.

But then everything was cold to him nowadays. Perhaps he was just imagining it.

The Heavy took up most of the lift, standing tall and staring straight forward at the closed doors in front of him. Medic had forgotten just how large the man truly was. The RED Heavy – the Russian that he had worked with most recently, and come to call his friend – was also a very large man, but much of his size was attributed to his ample belly and muscular arms. But this BLU Heavy beside him was a true giant of a man. Broad of chest and shoulder, taller than Medic himself by nearly a head, with long, strong legs and arms built for hard, grueling labor. His hands and face were scarred from years of brutal work, and there were a few more recent looking wounds, still pink and puckered where they carved through his skin.

The years had left their mark on him as well, of course. His grey hair and the loose skin around his neck and face, the way he favoured his right leg ever so slightly when he walked. He was an old man now. But the raw power of him had not diminished by even a fraction. The muscles in his arms bulged as he crossed them over his chest, his shoulder blades shifting like tectonic plates beneath the fabric of his shirt.

Medic felt dwarfed, truly.

“What am I to expect?” he asked, breaking the silence between them as their elevator ascended another floor. The Heavy glanced at him.

“You don't have to be polite to him,” he said. “Just respectful enough to stroke his ego and let him think he's in charge.”

Medic looked up at him with raised eyebrows.

“Isn't he?”

The Heavy laughed. A low rumble from deep in his chest that reverberated off the metal walls.

“He writes the checks and tells us where to go. You and I know better than to think that's what puts a man _in charge.”_

Medic processed that. He did know better than to think giving orders was indicative of power, but that the Heavy had brought it up so blatantly showed that he had little love for his employer. That could be useful, if the Heavy were another, simpler man.

The elevator came to a halt on the twelfth floor and the doors opened with a little ding. The Heavy reached into a pocket and drew out a single key on a chain, extended between his thick fingers. Medic took it and read the number on the label.

“Don't bother knocking,” the larger man said, grinning slightly. Medic took that as his cue to go. He stepped out into the hall, and the elevator doors slid closed behind him.

He started off down the hall, then turned around when he realized he was going the wrong way. Once oriented, he found the room quickly enough. As a reflex he tried the handle and found it locked. He inserted the key, twisted until he heard a click, and then took a very deep breath before pushing open the door.

Medic stepped into a room of complete darkness. As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, the room was flooded with light.

He threw up his hand as a shield against the brightness and whatever might be thrown at him, but no attack came. There was a strange crackling, like a signal coming into focus, followed by the sound of someone clearing their throat. Medic opened his eyes.

The room looked exactly how a high class hotel room ought to. The bed looked untouched and all of the furniture was in place, with the simple edition of a large, flat television screen placed against the wall opposite the door. It was the only source of light. Medic squinted at it. He could made out the shape of a man, of a head and slim shoulders, but the light behind him rendered him as nothing more than a black, distorted silhouette.

“Hello, Dr. Schaller.”

Medic blanched.

“You are startled?” the voice said, not waiting for him to respond. It was a high, phlegmatic voice that chilled him almost beyond reason. “I expected you might be. It took a bit of digging on my part to uncover your true identity. You are very skilled at covering your tracks. Though no lie is without evidence.”

“ _Wer bist du?”_ Medic asked. His own voice came out as a whisper, cracked and catching in his throat.

His name.

No one knew his name. No one should ever-

“I'm far more interested in who _you_ are, doctor,” the man said, and there was the sound of shuffling papers. He cleared his throat again. “Erik Schaller, born September seventh 1854, third child to Dr. Johannes Schaller and his wife, Nicola. Brother to Laura, died 1862 – so young, my goodness – and Ivonne, died 1913.”

He turned the page. Medic's legs were shaking beneath him.

“A graduate of the University of Tübingen sometime in the late eighteen-seventies – I'm afraid my records are rather unclear on that front – thus becoming _Doctor_ Erik Schaller. Wed to Ilse Bohn in 1888, shortly before emigrating to America for-”

The silhouette shifted, as though leaning forward.

“-financial reasons.”

That was a rather profound understatement.

“ _There is nothing!” his mother cried shrilly, tearing through the documents the bank had given her. Their accounts, their savings, all of it gone._

“ _How could he?” she shouted, before the tears took her. “How could he do this to us?”_

Erik's father was a kind, pious man. He believed the key to good living was faith and happiness, and he wanted both for his family. So he did not tell them when he lost his job at the hospital because of his shaking hands. He didn't tell them, for years, that he couldn't work. He didn't want them to worry. Instead of finding new work or asking for help, both of which would have revealed his weakness and shame, he hid his ailment from them and allowed them to live off of their savings alone, almost without restraint.

Medic's family had been wealthy once. By the time he was thirty and his father was dead, his mother and sister were on the verge of being turned out to the streets.

Ilse was a blessing, to have shown up when she did. Her family was never rich, only comfortably middle class, but she was kind and good-hearted and loved him with all her might. For a time.

“Father of two,” the voice continued, sounding almost bored with the facts and most traumatic details of his life it was reading off, without a care for how it may affect _him._ “Joseph and Irena, both deceased. Two time employee of the Builders League United, more colloquially referred to as _BLU,_ most recently employed under the banner of Reliable Excavation Demolition, most commonly known as _RED._ Though I suspect your loyalty lies with neither company, given your unwillingness to cooperate with my brothers.”

The voice turned sour.

“I'm afraid I've had some trouble digging up more recent evidence of your activities, Dr. Schaller. I doubt very much that you're working alone, slipping in and out of this Company without detection over the course of so many decades as you have. Your tracks have been covered well. It's a subject that may require further investigation. Or conversation, if you prove cooperative.”

Medic felt sick. This man knew too much. Far, far too much about his life and his past. But he hadn't mentioned Helen, or Laura. Or René. Perhaps he didn't know.

He must never know.

“Who are you?” Medic asked again, louder. The man on screen chuckled.

“Why, I am a fan.”

“A fan? A fan of what?”

“Of yours, doctor. Of your work.”

Medic didn't know if his heart had stopped or if it was simply pounding too fast to keep track of the individual beats.

“What do you know of my work?” he asked. His mouth had gone very dry.

“Oh, a great deal,” the voice said seriously. “I admit, you only came to my attention in recent years, but you have held it absolutely. How could I not be fascinated? You're a man after my own heart, Dr. Schaller” – Medic twitched visibly each time his name was used; the nails were being pulled from the coffin of the life he had buried – “The two of us shared a rather inescapable problem, such as all men are afflicted with. And separately we found our own ways to manage such flaws, such limitations that nature has seen fit to impose on us. Your approach so far has been rather ingenious. I'm curious to see how far you've come.”

“How are we alike?” Medic demanded of the man whose face he had yet to see. “What is it that you think _we_ have accomplished?”

“We are alive.”

“What does that have to do with-”

Medic stopped.

Alive.

The accomplishment was simply being _alive,_ long past when he should have been. When _they_ should have been. Men who had seen the ravages of time and decided it would never apply to them. Men who decided that death was not an option. Not at present. Not until they decided it for themselves. Now _that_ was an interesting notion.

Was that what was shared between them?

“You _are_ a sharp one, aren't you?” the man said with a smile in his voice, responding to the slack, slightly awed look on Medic's face. “Not that I expected anything less.”

“What do you want from me?” Medic asked. And now he was genuinely curious. Still slightly sick, still afraid, but very, very curious. “Why have you put all of this together? My team, this assault on Mann Co. What are you trying to do?”

“I am reclaiming my birthright,” the voice said, suddenly harsh, “which was stolen from me the moment I set foot in this wretched world. I am Grey Mann. My _father_ was as big an idiot as the two boys he elected to raise, and gave his name and all his influence to. And a fine mess they've made with their money and power, what little of it they retained. They had no brains. No real intelligence, not even any proper business sense. They too sought to press on and face the bold new future of years to come, but not by any of their own means, oh, no. They didn't earn their lives. They didn't deserve them. They were an obstacle and I have removed them, which I think you will agree is for the betterment of all mankind. The Mann Corporation is mine. And under my leadership we will reign in a new era of progress and discovery that will benefit generations to come.”

The notion of progress – ruthless, ever-changing progress – was exhilarating. It was Medic's driving force, at the very core of himself. To _push_ at every boundary that had ever been placed on him and see it broken by sheer ingenuity and force of will.

There was a darker side to progress. To the unrelenting machine of it which crushed all that couldn't keep up under its heel. Medic was painfully, constantly aware of this fact every time he opened his mouth in front of a new person, watching their expression change as the first few, clipped notes of an accent passed his lips. Terrible, terrible things had been done in the name of progress.

But that was no reason to halt it entirely.

“You have made incredible progress,” Grey Mann said, his silhouette leaning forward just enough for Medic to catch a glimpse of shockingly white hair. “You appear in excellent health, and I would be most interested to hear how you've maintained such a youthful appearance where your team has already begun to wither and decay. They were your first subjects, were they not? Indeed, it was they who brought you to my attention. I'm very glad you turned up when you did. I would have hated to have to hunt you down.”

“As I would have hated to be hunted.”

“So I thought. There is no need for hostility between us, doctor. It would be my preference that we work together, in whichever manner suits your comfort. I would much rather have you as my friend than my enemy.”

“Then I am not to be held captive?” Medic asked, glancing around the darkened room as though expecting agents to leap from the shadows and restrain him. Mann chuckled again.

“Of course not. You are free to leave at any time, to flee into obscurity once more or to rejoin your new little team and the efforts they are no doubt scrambling against me. It is irrelevant. I am offering you a partnership, Dr. Schaller. It is a one time offer, and it will expire should you leave this room without accepting it. But you _will_ be allowed to leave, if you choose. No one will stop you, no one will harm you. But the next time we meet, I'm afraid it will not be on such amicable terms.”

_Partnership._

What a fascinating prospect.

It had been decades since Medic had worked with a like-minded individual, much less one that could keep up with him intellectually. Longer still since he'd been surprised by the work of another. And with this Grey Mann's trust he would be allowed into this inner workings of this operation. He could stand at the helm of progress and steer the world into a new age of prosperity. He could come out of hiding, and finally – _finally_ – step onto the stage of scientific community.

Medic thought of the power that would be at his command. He thought of the knowledge he could contribute and learn from, and he thought of the opportunities that would be afforded to him

Erik thought of René.

He inhaled sharply and grinned.

“Shall we begin?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> headcanon that TFC Heavy is the kind of man who swears excessively and expresses fondness through moderate acts of violence who's with me on this


	8. Calm Before the Storm

It was the pity he hated.

More than anything. More than suspicion, more than contempt, even more than blatant hatred, René hated to be looked at with pity.

Scout was the worst, of course. He and Demo. They asked him questioned in hushed voices, lending their ears if he “needed to talk,” wearing sympathetic expressions whenever he caught them looking at him. They were trying to be his friends because they thought he needed it.

They thought Erik had left him.

It left a bitter taste in his mouth to know how readily his teammates believed his lover had abandoned him. They hardly questioned it at all. Scout had been the most vocal on the subject, since he was so surprised when they finally got him back to the house to find out that Medic wasn't there with him. He commented on the doctor's absence, loudly, and jokingly asked if Spy had been “dumped.” René's cold answering glare was enough to shut him up, but not enough to convince him to mind his own business.

René fed him the same lies he had been feeding the others: Medic had found a new passion to chase and moved on. Without him, and without explanation. And they believed it. So easily they believed Erik had grown bored of him and simply walked away. Is that what they thought of him? That he was disposable and easy to leave behind? Did they really think Erik so callous and cold that he would simply walk away from five years of a relationship without so much as a by-your-leave? Even Miss Pauling, who arguably knew the doctor better than anyone, didn't express any suspicion regarding his story. She pressed her lips into a thin line whenever René had to repeat the lie – just like Erik did, whenever he was forced to talk about something he really did not want to talk about – but never once did she speak against it. Never once did she say “that doesn't sound like him” or “I can't believe he would do that to you.” René wanted to ask her why. Wanted to know what Erik had done, who he had left before, to make his own granddaughter think that such behavior was in his nature.

He wanted to think better of him than that.

It wasn't real, of course. He hadn't really been “dumped.” Erik had said very firmly that he wasn't truly leaving him and wasn't ending their relationship. They'd made love the night before he left and parted with the understanding that it was all an act, for both their sakes. It wasn't real. It only _felt_ real.

Over two weeks had passed without a single word of communication between them. René didn't know where Erik was or what he was doing, only that he was supposed to be meeting with his former BLU team. They were wrapped up in this, somehow. In this ridiculous war with robots. Spy had yet to see a single robot outside of a blurry surveillance photograph, but he didn't exactly feel threatened by this science-fiction enemy. He carried around a device capable of rendering some of the most advanced technology on the planet completely nonfunctional in a matter of seconds. He saw no reason for it not to work on robots as well, and assumed the Engineer would agree with him.

If only the Engineer were there.

They were down four men. Sniper, Heavy, Engineer, and of course Medic were all unaccounted for. Miss Pauling had located the Sniper fairly easily, but Heavy was proving more difficult to track down. Engineer had all but vanished from the map – even his family had gone missing, which made Spy very uneasy; he recalled the Texan had a little girl at home – and Erik was doing an excellent job of covering his tracks, wherever he was. They would all have to be collected. But first, they had to know where they were. Miss Pauling was pulling overtime trying to get their locations. René hoped, for all their sakes, that she would succeed, and soon.

He'd forgotten how easy it was to hate his teammates.

“I am going to kill him.”

“No ye won't.”

“I will.”

“Let it go, lad.”

“Disgraceful! You call that a hamburger? I have made a more convincing hamburger out of a man's face with my fists!”

“Man, shut up!”

This was how it had been for a week. The five of them – Soldier, Scout, Demo, Pyro, and Spy himself – trapped in this house, literally locked inside while Miss Pauling ran off on her own to complete top secret missions. She would return periodically with food and advice to keep their heads down, but her last visit had been three days ago. They were all going stir crazy. Things were getting tense.

Spy's head was pounding. Scout had graciously taken it upon himself to cook what little food they had left, and Soldier was “helping” by “providing motivation” in the form of yelling.

“Pyro, tell him his hamburger is a failure!”

“ _Mm mmph!”_

“Aw, c'mon, don't take his side!”

“I will _wound_ him,” Spy said through gritted teeth, drumming his fingers irritably on the tabletop as he listened to his teammates bicker over what was likely to be their last meal for a while. Beside him, Demo heaved a weary sigh.

“Yer out of cigarette's again, aren't ye?”

Spy shot him a venomous glare.

He'd started smoking again. A surprisingly kind offer from a well-meaning Soldier had broken his six months of resolve, and now Spy was exactly back to where he'd started. And with only a couple packs between the three of them – Scout did not smoke, and Pyro was forbidden from touching cigarettes after it was discovered all they did was light them and watch them burn down – they had quickly run out.

“Please tell me you have some left,” he said, unable to keep a note of begging out of his voice, then cursed when Demo gave him only a pitying shake of the head. Spy leaned forward to rest his face on the table. The cool, hard wood against his sweating forehead offered only minor relief, and only briefly. Scout picked up the frying pan and threw it back down onto the stove.

“Fuck you!” he shouted, with real anger in his voice. “I don't see any'a you assholes tryna help out around here! You want a goddamn burger? Well make it your damn self!”

“Easy, boyo,” Demo warned. He was surprisingly calm when sober, but Spy had no idea how the man managed to keep his cool in these conditions. But he was immensely grateful for it. Someone had to be the voice of reason in this madhouse, and he really didn't have the energy for it at the moment.

Spy turned his head just in time to watch Soldier's chest swell as he squared up to his full height, puffing out as his face got redder. He groaned and covered his ears before the real yelling started.

“INSUBORDINATION!”the American screamed. “I DO NOT HAVE TO ANSWER TO YOU. I DID NOT ASK FOR YOUR BACKTALK. DROP AND GIVE ME TWENTY, PRIVATE!”

“I'm not your private!” Scout shouted back, squaring up to him in turn. Spy could see the strength in his arms now, the wiry muscle that bulged beneath the skin as his hands balled into tight fists at his sides. Soldier's face was nearly purple.

“YOU WILL FOLLOW ORDERS, OR I WILL MAKE YOU FOLLOW ORDERS, SON!”

“ _I AM NOT YOUR SON!”_

Scout lunged at Soldier, hard and quick, and the resulting scuffle was the most interesting thing that had happened in days. Demo leapt to his feet, joining the yelling as he tried to pry the two Americans apart while they did their best to kill each other as Spy remained face down on the table with his hands over his ears, silently hoping one of them would succeed. Pyro bustled in and ignored the commotion entirely, taking up a place in front of the stove and gleefully tending to what was left of the ground beef. Charring it to a crisp, by the smell of it.

Soldier had Scout in a headlock while the boy was keeping a surprisingly vicious grip on the older man's ear. Demo was trying to pull Soldier's arm away, to no avail, before he crushed Scout's windpipe.

That was when the door to the garage banged open and Miss Pauling stepped in.

“ _What the hell is going on in here?”_

The whole room froze at the sight of her gun, which was drawn and switching rapidly between targeting each of their heads. Her eyes focused on Scout and Soldier and narrowed. They immediately broke apart.

“Are you two fighting _again?”_ she demanded, lowering her weapon when she realized there was no immediate threat. “For heaven's sake, I could hear you from out on the street!”

“Sorry Miss P,” Scout said at the exact same time Soldier said, “I am not responsible for this.”

“Liar!” Scout snapped, rounding on him. “I was just tryna make us dinner when you had to come in and start giving orders!”

“Had you followed my orders you would not have been reprimanded!” Soldier said gruffly. He crossed his arms over his chest. “You are clearly inexperienced in the matters of cookery.”

“I _know_ how to make a hamburger, shit-for-brains!”

The pair of them opened their mouths and very loud sounds started coming out of them, but Spy couldn't differentiate one from another. By this point he didn't care to. Demo soon joined in, again, trying to calm everyone down and only adding to the ruckus. Pyro managed to set off the smoke alarm that they had all earlier agreed probably had no working batteries in it.

There was a gunshot, and Spy nearly fell out of his chair.

“ _ENOUGH!”_ Miss Pauling roared, and for the second time everything in the room went still in the face of this tiny, furious woman.

She was seething.

“Have all of you lost your minds?” she yelled, lowering the smoking barrel of her gun. The smoke alarm had stopped beeping, and Spy didn't have to look up to know that was what she shot. “Do you have _any_ idea how much trouble I've gone through to try and keep you here in secret, and you're putting all of that in jeopardy by making enough noise to wake the whole neighborhood over- over-”

She squinted at the smoking pan on the stove.

“Is that ground beef?”

“I was trying to make hamburger,” Scout said sheepishly, looking appropriately abashed. “I mean, I figured _somebody's_ gotta cook-”

“I was supervising,” Soldier said flatly, and Scout looked about ready to deck him. Miss Pauling gave him a warning look and he promptly deflated.

“What happened to all the canned food I bought last time?” she asked.

“We 'aven't got a can opener,” Demo mumbled. She slapped a hand to her forehead.

“Oh my god. How many knives do you own between you? You couldn't just pry the top off?”

They all shuffled their feet. With the exception of Spy, who was slowly getting to his. He rounded the table and walked straight up to Miss Pauling, and placed both hands on her shoulders as he looked her full in the face. She stared up at him with raised eyebrows.

“Please,” he implored, “let me out of this house.”

 

* * *

 

It was a long day that felt like a short day. The hours sped past far too quickly, robbing them of their all too brief moments of comfort. But all of them took solace in the knowledge that they would likely be out and about for a good long while.

Sniper and Heavy had been located. Miss Pauling wanted to contact them as soon as possible, before things really started getting out of hand, and that meant they would all be leaving in the morning. Further details would be given after they'd all had a bite to eat.

Spy and Scout were allowed to travel to the nearby fast food chain on their own, with a hastily written list and a large wad of cash. Miss Pauling took the others grocery shopping. They were going to need travel gear; neither Pyro nor Soldier had even brought suitcases with them, and no one really had any appropriate clothing for the sort of weather they would be facing. With their food and such all purchased, Miss Pauling gathered them all around the kitchen table and explained their missions.

They would be split into two teams of three. Pyro, Scout, and Soldier were being sent to Siberia to find Heavy. She only had a rough idea of his actual location, but enough to narrow the search to a relatively small region of mountains. Sniper had apparently returned to Australia, where she, Spy, and Demo would be going. Her sources claimed that he'd gone back to his family's farm. By all accounts it sounded like the easier job. Spy wasn't complaining. He'd heard marvelous things about Australia, despite having Sniper and Saxton Hale as his only examples of its countrymen. It should be exciting, at the very least.

But before any of them set out, Miss Pauling had one more task for them.

Clean the house.

“We can't leave any trace of our being here,” she said loudly, over the resulting chorus of reluctant groans. “Also this place is a pigsty and you should be ashamed of yourselves. Go upstairs and pack, then meet back in here and I'll give you all your assignments.”

Spy marched upstairs single file with the others, wondering if this was what it felt like to be a schoolboy.

He and Demo shared the room across from the bathroom, while Scout and Soldier were stuffed into the room at the end of the hall. There weren't enough mattresses to go around, so some of them were unlucky enough to have to sleep on bare box springs. Pyro slept on the couch, on their own in front of the TV. No one knew where Miss Pauling slept.

Most of Spy's belongings were still packed from when he'd arrived, but Demo's things were sprawled all over the room. They spent a good five minutes just gathering them up.

“Don't forget this,” Spy said irritably, snatching a small cardboard box off the mattress that was supposed to be his. Demo squinted at it.

“Thas not mine,” he shrugged. “Must be somethin' from the house. Jus' put it back where ye found it.”

“It was on my bed,” Spy grumbled, frowning at the thing. He turned it over and froze.

 _R_ _EN_ _É_ was printed in thick block letters over what appears to be a shipping label on the back. His name. No one here knew his name.

He looked quickly to the Demoman, to see if he'd noticed anything, but the Scotsman had turned his back and was now trying to cram four unfolded pairs of pants into his suitcase, grunting all the while. Spy looked back to the package.

Was it from Miss Pauling? Why wouldn't she simply give it to him herself, instead of leaving it out on the bed for anyone to find? And why would she risk putting his name on it? She wouldn't, was the answer. She was smarter than that. This was something else, from someone else. Someone must have gotten into the house while they were out and left this for him. But who? And why?

“Gotcha!” Demo said, and Spy startled. The other man stood with his hands on his hips, staring triumphantly at his successfully fastened suitcase. “That ought tae do it. You ready to head back down and get to work?”

“In a moment,” Spy said, casually folding his arms to hide the box from view. “I've got a few things yet to put away. I will meet you downstairs.”

Demo nodded and set off. He pulled the door to behind him, but left it open. Spy waited for half a heartbeat, then sat down on his bed and set about tearing into the box.

He used his balisong to slit open the packing tape and pulled the top open. A folded piece of paper fluttered out and he moved hastily to catch and read it.

 _FOR EMERGENCIES,_ the note started, again in block letters.

_DO NOT REVEAL THIS DEVICE TO ANYONE, EVEN PAULING._

_DO NOT DISCLOSE YOUR LOCATION._

_DO NOT DISCLOSE YOUR MISSION._

_DO NOT DISCLOSE DETAILS OF YOUR SITUATION._

_KEEP COMMUNICATION BRIEF._

_WAIT TO BE CONTACTED. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO MAKE FIRST CONTACT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES._

_ANY TAMPERING WILL RESULT IN IMMEDIATE SELF DESTRUCTION. A REPLACEMENT WILL NOT BE ISSUED._

_GOOD LUCK._

He read the instructions three times, frowning at the last line and how out of place in seemed, before crumpling it up and shoving it into his pocket to be burned later. Then he returned to the package itself and examined its contents.

It was small and black and sleek. A little device, clearly electronic and probably Australian in origin, that would fit very discreetly in any of his pockets. There was a little plastic protrusion at the top, which on further inspection proved to be an antenna. René turned the device over in his hands, looking for a button or a speaker of some kind, but there was nothing. Only smooth... plastic. Metal? Probably plastic.

His fingers found the hinge at the top, then the seam, and he flipped it open. A peculiar sense of recognition washed over him.

This was a phone.

He'd seen its like only once, five years ago. With shaking hands he'd found it in the false bottom of a drawer in Erik's room, and used it to call Laura and let her know that they were in danger. This was not exactly the same model, but it looked very similar. There was a screen on the top portion that read the time in digital numbers. On the bottom half was a number pad, with other little buttons that he didn't know the function of. He decided it would be prudent not to press anything. He wasn't sure what might count as “tampering.”

This was from the Administrator, he was sure of it. A way to keep in touch with her or receive orders. Perhaps even a way to call for backup. But only for him. He didn't have the time to wonder why that was.

“Spy?” Miss Pauling's voice called from the hall, and he had just enough time to shove the device under his pillow before she was pushing open the door. “Are you alright in here?”

“Of course,” he said evenly. “Forgive me, I had more to pack than I anticipated. I didn't mean to keep you waiting.”

“No worries,” she said, leaning casually against the door frame. “I've got everyone else working already. I just came up to make sure you weren't trying to get out of doing your fair share.”

Spy was ready to defend himself until he saw her smile and realized she was joking. He smiled back.

“I wouldn't dream of it. What would you have me do?”

“Well I've got Scout picking up garbage and Pyro cleaning the kitchen. Soldier and Demo are doing the dishes. I figured you could help me with the dusting?”

His smile widened into a grin.

“It would be my pleasure, _mademoiselle.”_

As it turned out, his delight at being given another easy job was premature.

There was nothing easy about dusting a house this old. There were cobwebs everywhere, some of them still counting simply as spider webs – spiders and all. The dust was caked on so thick in some places that it required scrubbing. This was _not_ dusting. This was actual work.

“If the idea is to make it look like no one has been here,” Spy grumbled, rolling up his sleeves in the face of a particularly grimy bit of shelving, “then what we are doing is very counterproductive. This is going to be the nicest house in the neighborhood by the time we're finished.”

“I just don't want to leave the place looking a mess,” Miss Pauling replied, a pair of yellow rubber gloves pulled up to her elbows. “Here, could you grab a chair for me to stand on? Not that one, it wobbles.”

Spy let go of the wooden chair he was holding, which had stood untouched since their arrival, and noticed as he set it down than one of the legs was significantly shorter than the others. He grabbed the chair beside it and slid it into the corner, making sure it was stable before Miss Pauling made to climb onto it.

“You've stayed in this house before?” he asked, passing her the rag and spray bottle. She chuckled lightly.

“You could say that. I grew up in this house.”

Spy's eyebrows shot up.

“Really?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Miss Pauling squirted a good amount of cleaning fluid onto the top shelf and began to wipe it down. For a long moment, that was all she said. Then-

“We moved here after my parents died,” she said, not looking at him, stretching up onto her tiptoes on the chair. “He wanted to be close to his work. Not that he was working at the time, but... just in case, I think.”

“You're talking about Erik,” Spy said, the realization hitting him suddenly. Of course she was. They were the only family each other had left, of course it would fall to Erik to raise her. Here, in this house. “How old were you?”

“We moved here when I was six or seven. There used to be a school a few blocks away but I think they tore it down a few years ago. Or maybe it just fell down. This used to be a much nicer neighborhood.”

“Why did you move?”

“We had to leave the country.”

Her tone was matter of fact, but there was a quaver in her voice that Spy didn't miss. She didn't elaborate. He didn't ask her too.

They spent the better part of the day cleaning, mostly in silence. Every once in a while one of them would think of something to say, some bit of small talk to break the tension, but nothing lasted long.

René felt like he was intruding. A whole week of living in this house and he'd barely been aware of his surroundings, but now he couldn't stop picking up little traces of Erik in every single room. The knife marks on the kitchen counter, because the man appeared incapable of using a cutting board unless it was shoved in front of him. The big empty wall in one of the spare bedrooms which he now realized was the perfect size to house a roost for his birds. The empty hangers in the closet of the master bedroom, all pushed to the right. Erik had lived in this house. A younger man then, younger than René had ever known him, raising his granddaughter and the last surviving member of his family all by himself. There were so many questions he wanted to ask. So many little details he was itching to know.

Did he walk her to school? Did he make her little lunches in paper bags? Did her help her with homework, or read her bedtime stories? Was he strict or lenient?

What on earth had he done to turn a little girl into the ruthless, calculating killer that she was today?

But he didn't ask. Didn't dare to. He understood now while Miss Pauling spent so much time away from them, out of the house and on her own. Perhaps there were some aspects of the past best left where they lay.

By the time the sun went down, the house was as spotless as it was going to get. All them were sore and sluggish and sweaty, covered in the very dirt they'd worked so hard to clean away. They took turns with the shower, and unfortunately Spy drew the short straw. What little hot water was left by his turn lasted just enough for him to get his hair wet, and then it was all cold and downhill from there.

Exhausted and acutely aware of how early he'd have to get up in the morning, Spy trudged quietly into his room and slumped onto the mattress without even bothering to put a shirt on. He was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

 

At first, he wasn't sure what had woken him.

The room was still dark and silent. The moon was high in the sky overhead, filtering in in dusty shafts through the boards nailed over the windows. Spy watched it with one eye half open, still in that uncertain state between dreaming and waking. Slowly, he let his eye fall shut again.

Something buzzed.

It was very close to his head, and very loud in his ear. It buzzed again, seemingly louder, and he let out a small groan as he felt around for the source of the buzzing. It sounded like a large bee or fly had gotten into the room, trapped under his blankets. He hoped that wasn't it. He didn't want to get up.

His hand stuck under his pillow and bumped into something hard and cold. It buzzed.

Spy opened his eyes.

He wrapped his fingers around the cold thing and felt it buzz again in his grasp. The phone. The _phone._ A call, it was a call, he was getting a-

It buzzed, again, and he sat up, fumbling with the device in the dark until he could pry it open. The screen was bright enough that he had to close his eyes. He put it up to his ear.

“Hello?”

There was a beat of silence.

“René?”

He was immediately three times more awake.

“Erik?” he whispered, cupping both hands over the phone. “Erik, is that you?”

“ _Ja,”_ laughed a wonderfully, achingly familiar voice. “Is that you?”

“Yes,” René replied breathlessly, helpless against the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Yes, it is me. _Mon Dieu,_ it's so good to hear your voice.”

“And yours, _schatz.”_

René felt over the moon. He couldn't stop smiling.

“Where are you?” he asked, and Erik hesitated.

“I... cannot tell you that, I'm sorry-”

“I understand,” René said quickly. “I should not have asked. Are you safe? Are you alright?”

Erik laughed again, such a warm sound that made his heart ache to hear it. He wanted to feel that rumble through the doctor's chest, pressed against his own. The distance between them, not even knowing how far it truly was, felt as though it could span galaxies.

“I am very well, yes. _Safe_ is another matter that has yet to be seen. I'm afraid it depends largely on my acting abilities. What about you? How are you? Are you alone?”

“ _Non,_ I'm-” He glanced quickly across the room where the Demoman was fast asleep, turned away so René couldn't see his face. The faint snoring sounds were reassuring, though. “There is someone else in the room, but they are asleep. Give me a moment, I'll find somewhere safer to talk.”

“Alright.”

Very, very quietly René got to his feet. The floorboards creaked beneath him as he walked toward the door, and the hinges were not exactly well oiled, but still Demo did not stir. With the little phone pressed protectively to his chest he crept across the hall into the bathroom and pushed the door shut behind him. When he was sure no one else in the house had woken up, he sat down on the toilet seat and put the phone back to his ear.

“Are you still there?”

“I haven't gone anywhere.”

He smiled.

“I'm glad. I miss you.”

“I miss you too, _schatz._ I am sorry for not calling sooner, I had no way of getting in touch with you before. How have you been?”

“Bored,” René admitted with a small laugh of his own. “I don't think I'm allowed to tell you exactly what I've been up to, but it isn't very interesting. Some of the others are here. They have not changed much, I'm afraid.”

Erik snorted into the phone, and René could perfectly picture the look on his face as he did so.

“I am not surprised,” he said, and there was a soft rustling sound as though he were adjusting the phone in his hand. “The years do not have so much effect as many would like to believe.”

“Well you would know all about that, wouldn't you?”

“Unfortunately, yes, I do. There's something to be said for consistency, at the very least.”

René gnawed his lip, deliberating whether he should ask or not.

“Are you with your old team?” he finally said, risking it. Erik sucked in a breath.

“I... _ja._ I am.”

There was a gap of silence. René wrapped an arm around his own shirtless midsection, suddenly aware of just how cold it was in the house now, despite the scorching heat of the day. He was used to the cold. But then he was used to always having someone there to warm him up, also.

“What are they like?” he ventured when he couldn't take the silence anymore. Across the line, Erik exhaled slowly. Again, René could picture him perfectly. He wondered suddenly if Erik was lying down, trying to get to sleep on his own, or if he was up late and working as he so often did. He wondered if his hair was mussed up from running his fingers through it in frustration, and if there was dark stubble across his jaw. He wondered if he still smelled of his aftershave, or if it had all worn away over the course of the day.

“They are much as I remember them,” Erik said drily, breaking him out of his musings. “They're old and grey now. Some of them have gotten fat, some of them have gotten thin, but they are still the same men I knew thirty years ago. It's amusing how upset they are with me for “not changing,” and yet they don't seem to have developed at all.”

“They're angry with you?”

“Some of them haven't forgiven me for-” He cut himself off. “Well. Some of them are quite capable of holding a grudge. The Soldier and Spy have been giving me dirty looks since I arrived, but I, _ah,_ I'm afraid I deserve that.”

It felt odd to hear of another Spy that wasn't him, or his opposite. This other Spy was a complete unknown, with a completely separate set of skills for all he knew. There was something disturbing about that.

“The Engineer is exactly as stubborn as I remember him,” Erik continued, rustling again. “And the Heavy is... _Gott,_ he's barely changed. Still with that temper, still far more clever than a man of his size has any right to be. He acts as though the war never ended. Cheeky.”

“You sound as though you knew him well.”

Erik laughed once more, more sourly than before.

“As well as he knew me. As well as we could know each other, under the circumstances.”

“You were close?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Erik hesitated just a moment too long before answering. René's brow furrowed slightly.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked, a small bit of suspicion twitching in his stomach. Again, Erik hesitated.

“It doesn't mean anything,” he said lightly, the way he did when he was lying. The twitch became a pang.

“Erik.”

The silence was more prolonged this time. Or perhaps it wasn't, but it felt as though it stretched on longer than before. René didn't breathe as he waited. But again, he was the one to break it.

“Were the two of you involved?” he asked, his accent thickening his words in his haste to get them out of his mouth. He heard Erik sigh.

“Is this really a conversation we need to have?”

“Answer my question, Erik.”

“I- I wouldn't say that we were _involved,”_ he said reluctantly, but already that answered the question. “We had no attachment to one another. It was- _ach,_ what is the word... stress-relief? A mutual arrangement, but nothing serious.”

“The two of you were having sex,” René said flatly. “To make your jobs easier.”

“Thirty years ago, yes,” Erik said, keeping his tone even. “For Gott's sake, René, the man is in his sixties, we haven't spoken in decades-”

“So I should not worry because he is too _old_ for you?” René snapped, suddenly angry. He was being irrational, hypocritical, and part of him knew it. But he felt lied to. He remembered suddenly the photograph Erik had shown him of the old team. The hulking brute with a hand on his shoulder, too familiar a touch amidst the group. He felt a new, more terrible dimension of abandonment; the fear that he had been or would be replaced by another. Or worse, that some day he too might “too old” for consideration.

“You shouldn't worry because I love you,” Erik said patiently, and all the fight went out of him in a heartbeat. He swallowed hard.

“Then why didn't you tell me? About him, I mean.”

“I didn't think it would have mattered,” Erik said, very softly. “That is all very much in the past, and bringing it up would have only given it more significance than it deserved. There was never anything there besides the physical. I would hope you think well enough of me that I don't have to ask you not to worry.”

There was a hurt little frown in his voice, pulling so clearly at the corners of his lips. René wrapped his arm more tightly around himself.

“Of course I think well of you,” he murmured, ashamed now of his anger. “I am... I'm sorry. Forgive me.”

“ _Immer.”_

René had to take a deep breath.

“I love you, too,” he said belatedly, wishing with all his might that he wasn't sitting alone in a bathroom and could instead be transported to his lover's side, that they could speak face to face and hold one another rather than talk through this little box of plastic. But wishing had never done him any good before, when he was suffering through far worse situations than this. It would not help, and it barely made him feel better. But still he wished.

There was so much he wanted to say.

“It's very late,” he said instead, bowing his head. Erik sighed.

“I know. I'm sorry if I woke you. I wasn't sure when else I would be able to call.”

“I'm glad you did. I will sleep better now having heard from you, knowing you're alright.”

“As will I.” He heaved another, heavier sigh. _“Scheiße,_ it is late... And I fear I am going to become very busy very soon.”

“You and I both. I have to be up early for- for reasons.”

Erik chuckled.

“Then I will let you sleep. I will try to call as often as I can, whenever I get a moment.”

“Stay safe,” René told him. Then, more softly, “You said you would come back to me.”

“I will, _Ich verspreche. Gute nacht,_ René. Take care of yourself.”

There was a click, and the line went dead.

René stayed in the bathroom for another few minutes, completely unable to stop smiling to himself. He held the phone as tightly as he dared, treasuring it above all his other possessions at the moment. When he crept back into bed – Demo remained asleep, still in the same position he'd left him in – he curled his hand beneath his pillow, holding the phone there, silently promising himself that he would never be caught off guard by its ringing again. He would always be ready. And now that he understand what it was for, and what a gift it truly was, he would always be waiting.

He was still smiling when he fell back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

It had been a very long time since Spy had boarded an airplane legally. He'd forgotten how much worse everything seemed to be when you were paying for it.

Miss Pauling had booked them economy seating for a twenty hour direct flight to Sydney, Australia, and Spy was never going to forgive her for it. Not for the cramped, uncomfortable seats, not for the disgusting airline food and the warm champagne, and certainly not for the upsettingly small bottles of booze that Demo was discreetly filling his pockets with whenever the stewardess turned her back.

Spy was crammed into the middle seat. His long legs were trapped both by limited space and common courtesy, not daring to stick his knees into the back of the seat in front of him. Miss Pauling had taken the window seat and spent much of the journey staring out of the little plastic porthole, when she wasn't going over the stack of files in her lap for the hundredth time. In the aisle seat, the Demoman was getting steadily knackered.

By the time their flight finally – _finally_ – landed, Spy had a crick in his neck that was certain to haunt him for life. Demo had to lean heavily on him in order to walk in a straight line toward the baggage claim and Miss Pauling was squinting suspiciously at everyone in sight, but they had made it. They were in Australia.

And what a marvelous country it was.

Magnificent gleaming spires of metal and glass dominated the skyline, stretching back as far as the eye could see. The roads were so clean they practically shone in the sunlight, gleaming as the strange, thin vehicles raced over their surface. Spy noted with wonder and alarm that the cars and buses were _hovering._

At the customs counter, and every counter as far as he could tell, the tellers had been replaced with vibrant, flickering facsimiles of human beings that smiled and spoke, yet they were only wafer thin projections with no actual substance to them. A woman with bright green eyes stamped their passports with the pad of her index finger, and when their hands brushed Spy's fingers went right through her skin. Her smile did not waver.

Strangest of all were the moustaches.

Everyone had one. Everyone. The men wore theirs large and thick and bushy, nearly obscuring their entire mouths and making it look like a great hairy caterpillar was wiggling across their face when they spoke. The women kept theirs neat and styled, and curling at the ends seemed to be a popular trend. There were flashing holographic advertisements for moustache wax in different scents and even flavours, marketed to make one's moustache grow faster or shine brighter or look fuller. Even the children had dark, bushy little fuzz sprouting from their upper lips. The youngest stared and gawked as Spy and Miss Pauling passed, with their hairless faces, and Demo received several interested stares from men and women alike for having even more than the usual amount of hair on his face. The Scotsman merely shrugged when this was pointed out to him, but there was a definite new bounce in his step.

The city was the most magnificent place that Spy had ever seen in his life.

And they got to look at it for all of fifteen minutes before Miss Pauling hailed down a taxi and stuffed them all into the back, and they began speeding off toward the Outback.

They had to change cars twice, and each time they were let out it was at a worse place than before. The hover vehicles could only go so far outside the city, apparently, though Spy had no idea why. The second car drove them for two hours, and then refused to go any further. They were very fortunate to find the third driver that was willing to take them where they needed to go. She was a stocky middle aged woman whose moustache was looking a little wispy, but she offered up her services free of charge and they certainly weren't in a position to refuse. She asked who they were and where they were from and where they were going and how long they were staying, and a volley of other questions that didn't end until Miss Pauling very demurely informed her that they were going to see a man about a dog. The driver laughed for about a minute straight and didn't ask any more questions.

At around the fifth hour of driving, Spy decided that he hated the country after all.

Outside of the cities there was nothing. Nothing of worth, that he could see. Hot sand and gnarled foliage and strange, impossible looking animals that had no fear of the humans passing through their domain. They slowed down, briefly, so the woman driving the truck could hurl a salutation out the window at a passing group of kangaroo.

Spy had never previously realized just how terrifyingly large the creatures were. The bulging muscles in their chests and arms made him distinctly, fiercely uncomfortable. Miss Pauling shrunk down in her seat until the beasts were out of sight.

“Why did you bring me here?” Spy grumbled, sometime into what he estimated to be the seventh hour of driving. Demo was asleep in the front seat, mouth wide open as he slumped against the window. Miss Pauling pursed her lips before answering.

“I thought you might enjoy the countryside.”

Spy snorted.

“I've always said I prefer the heat to the cold. I hope the others are enjoying themselves in the snow. Though I still don't understand why you sent possibly the three most inept members of our little team off into a frozen wasteland to fend for themselves.”

She shrugged.

“I trust Pyro.”

Spy looked at her sidelong, taking a moment to process that.

“Why did you really bring me?” he asked quietly. “You chose these teams, and I think I know you well enough to understand that you do not do things without good reason.”

“You think you know me?” she said, turning to him with raised eyebrows. Spy raised his hands defensively, acknowledging his misstep. She snorted softly. “I brought you to keep an eye on you, Spy. And also because I figured you'd have the best chance of convincing Sniper to come back to work. He wasn't very happy with the Company when he left. I imagine he'd be more than pleased to let it all burn to the ground.”

“What makes you think he will listen to me any more than he would he would listen to you?”

“He likes you.”

Spy guffawed.

“ _Likes_ me? That is absurd.”

“I have some security footage that says otherwise.”

A little light bulb went off over Spy's head. He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Oh.”

He had a pretty good idea of the security footage she was speaking off. And if he was correct, it involved a very unflattering and incriminating shot of himself from the waist down.

“Erik knows,” he said, even more quietly than before, casting a glance at the driver's disinterested expression in the rear-view mirror. He thought back to his conversation with Erik the night before, and the hypocrisy of his own words. “It was years ago, before he and I even became friends, much less more than that. A dalliance.”

“I wasn't making an accusation,” Miss Pauling said, turning to look out the window. “Just answering your question. The file lists you as the teammate Sniper was closest with, so that's why I brought you. It's nothing personal, Spy.”

He could only see half of her face now, and her reflection in the dusty window. She wasn't smiling or frowning, or glaring at him. But somehow he very much doubted that there was nothing personal about this.

He did not push the issue, and they didn't speak again until the truck rolled to the stop at the end of a dusty driveway, just as the sun was beginning to think about going down.

“Good luck with your dog!” the driver called as soon as they were all out, waving cheerfully as she spun the truck around back in the direction from which they'd come. They watched it disappear down the road, leaving them stranded.

“Oh, my back...” Demo groaned as they were forced to set off down the driveway on foot. His spine popped alarmingly as he stretched. “Let's hope the lanky bastard wants tae come back tae work.”

When they were three quarters of the way to the house when the front door opened, and the smallest old woman Spy had ever seen stepped out onto the porch. He noticed immediately that she did not have a moustache.

“Can I help you?” she called as they drew closer, holding her hand to her forehead to block the worst of the sun. Miss Pauling cleared her throat and stepped forward.

“Mrs. Mundy? My name is Miss Pauling, I represent the Reliable Excavation Demolition branch of the Mann Company. I'm very sorry to show up unannounced like this, but I was hoping to speak to your son-”

“Well it's about bloody time!” the woman cried, rushing down the porch to meet them. “You've come to take him back to work, haven't you? Thank Hale for small miracles, I _knew_ they wouldn't just let him off like that. C'mon, in with you, I'll put on some tea.”

Shocked and a little startled at the welcome, the three of them were herded into the little red house, which Spy was relieved to find was much cooler on the inside. It was modestly furnished, but very clearly a comfortable family home. It had none of the technological marvels of the city. There was a television set in front of the sofa, but it was an older model, tarnished in placed and well past its prime.

The kitchen was right off the front door and they were all instructed to sit around the table while the little old woman that could only somehow be Sniper's mother bustled about making them something to drink.

“I was so worried,” she was saying, climbing up on a convenient little stepping stool to reach the sink. “He's a good lad, my boy, but it's been so difficult for him coming back home to the farm. I try not to ask too many questions about his work, it only upsets him, but I know how happy he was in America. Oh, he'll be so pleased to see you here, I'm sure of it. He's out with his father, with the sheep, but the moment he gets back- Goodness, listen to me, yakking on. Did you have a long drive? Those fancy flying cars don't come all the way out here, sorry to say.”

“It was fine, thank you,” Miss Pauling said quickly, sharing a glance with Spy and Demo. Of all the possible welcomes, this was not what they had expected. “Sn- your son is certainly a valued member of the team and we were sorry to see him go. We were hoping to discuss a contract renewal with him.”

“Oh, he'd just love that. My Jon's been picking on him something fierce since he came back here, saying he was out of work, trying to give us the rest of his money. Laurence always means well, he's a good boy, but he-”

She cut herself off with a little gasp and clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Now look what I've done, I've forgotten you corporate types like your nicknames, don't you? Oh, I hope I've not gotten him in trouble-”

“It's okay,” Miss Pauling reassured quickly. “Don't worry, Ma'am, we've loosened some of fraternization regulations over this last quarter due to employee feedback. Names are low on the list of priorities.”

Spy looked at Miss Pauling in amusement. It was so odd to hear her speak this way, all professional and no-nonsense. He pulled his face back into a carefully neutral expression as Mrs. Mundy pulled up a chair at the table and looked between him and Demo while waiting for the kettle to boil.

“You two work with my boy?” she asked brightly, and with such a hopeful expression that Spy couldn't help but smile again.

“ _Oui madame._ We are all on the same team.”

Her eyes widened at his accent.

“Oh, gracious, and you're him, aren't you? My Laurence likes to write his letters, you know, and I remember a few years past he was always talking about some Frenchman this, some Frenchman that.”

Spy's eyebrows threatened to disappear beneath the hem of his mask.

“He wrote about me?” he asked, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. She patted him fondly on the arm, as if he were an old family friend.

“Of course, all the time! And what ever happened to that, hm?”

Before Spy could even begin to formulate an answer there was the sound of footsteps pounding out the steps to the porch. They all turned just in time for the front door to burst open and Sniper himself to step inside.

He was filthy. Covered in dust and sweat and little bits of dried grass and sawdust that stuck in his hair and to his clothes. He was several shades tanner than he'd ever been working stateside, and the half-open front of his shirt proved that it was not limited to his face and arms. There was a light stubble across the lower half of his long face, and his hair looked as though it hadn't been combed in days, but there was still a very definite lack of moustache on his upper lip. Spy could smell him from where he stood in the doorway. He stared in awe at this sweaty, dirty, musky man wiping rivulets of muddy sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm in the doorway, and a single phrase came to mind.

_Disgusting bushman._

Sniper pulled his trademark yellow sunglasses down from his eyes and squinted into the house. He froze.

“Ah, fuck.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the working title for this chapter was "you told your mom about me" so clearly you can see where my priorities lay
> 
> comic canon divergence starts now~


	9. Darkness Descends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kind of a short chapter, and i'm aware that i'm taking a lot of liberties
> 
> eh

“Is that the same goddamn bird from before?” the Heavy had asked him when he brought Archimedes up to the room that had been assigned to him. The hotel didn't allow pets. But then it didn't allow weapons either, and yet no one said a word about the stockpile of guns, ammunition, and explosives in the kitchen.

“Archimedes has been with me longer than you have been alive,” Medic told him, frowning, stroking the bird's head with a gentle forefinger. Archimedes didn't like this Heavy. The big man was too rough with her the few times she'd been brave enough to land on him, or Medic had tried to teach him how to hold her. That was decades ago, but she had a long memory. The Heavy had merely glared at him in response before waving a dismissive hand and leaving the room, leaving Medic to his unpacking and making himself comfortable.

The hotel was not to be their permanent base, so he didn't bother setting up in earnest. But their stay had been extended, thanks to his arrival, while a new plan was being devised to account for his presence. That was what the Heavy told him. Medic didn't know if he entirely believed him.

It was not a true fortress. The building wasn't fortified by any means, and the hotel staff that had been allowed – forced, more likely – to stay still roamed the halls from time to time. The cleaning crew knew that they were not welcome in Medic's room, but some of the others seemed to enjoy their services. They tolerated the lobby staff, whose job it was to tell all visiting tourists that the hotel was all booked up. The only employees that were treated with any courtesy at all were the cooks and the bartender.

Medic avoided them all. He had his own room, and that was enough.

The king size bed was far too big and empty for just him, so he avoided it as well. Archimedes didn't like being cooped in such a confined space, but he wasn't going to risk letting her fly around outside or in the larger parts of the hotel. She would simply have to adapt. Just as he was adapting.

The Spy had been in his room.

He was sure of it. Rifled through his things, searched for anything incriminating to disprove his loyalty or be used against him. There was nothing to be found, of course. He'd brought nothing with him that could betray his true purposes here, and he kept the cellular phone Helen had given him on his person at all times, where it could not be taken without him noticing. This was not his first time deceiving his colleagues. He knew better than to be so careless.

They did not trust him. Not that he could blame them.

The last couple days, he'd spent as much time in his room as he possibly could. All the better to avoid the scowls, the poisonous glares, the looks of downright hatred that his BLU teammates shot in his direction whenever they could get away with it. The Heavy made a point of discouraging outright hostile behavior, but he couldn't be everywhere at once. These were hard men. Hatred ran deep in them. If Medic wanted their trust, he would have to earn it back.

It was exactly this sort of foolish notion that had him leaving the sanctity of his room and heading downstairs, where he knew he would find his colleagues drinking in the hotel's bar and restaurant.

They looked up at him as he entered, exactly how they had done the first day he arrived. Eight heads lifting as one, eight sets of hands reaching automatically for weapons they didn't currently possess until they recognized who he was. The arrangements at the tables were different this time. And the big man was no longer at the bar.

“Medic,” the Heavy called, his voice loud and commanding even when not shouting. He raised a massive hand, waving him over, and Medic was dismayed to see him sitting with the Spy. But he went, and cautiously lowered himself into the seat across from the thin man. The Heavy clapped a hand to his shoulder.

“Good to see you out and about, doctor,” he grinned. “And here we were starting to think you were avoiding us.”

“What would be the point?” Medic replied. “We are all on the same team again, are we not? I wouldn't dream of ignoring my colleagues.”

The Heavy laughed. The Spy did not. The hand remained firmly on his shoulder.

“We were just talking about you, too, weren't we?” the Heavy said, glancing at his masked comrade. Medic followed his gaze and found the Spy already staring at him. He smiled lightly.

“All good things, I hope.”

The Spy did not answer. He merely stared. Medic decided to push his luck.

“What is the matter?” he teased, leaning forward on his elbows, bringing a touch of wickedness to his smirk. “Cat got your tongue?”

What was visible of the Spy's face contorted into an expression of pure loathing. The fury in his dark eyes would have chilled a lesser man, but Medic was anything but that. His smirk only widened as the masked man pushed back his chair and stood stiffly, walking away from the table and leaving the room entirely. The Heavy watched him go behind tinted goggles. The grin on his scarred face indicated he didn't entirely disapprove.

“Don't take it personally, doctor. Emil ain't been much of a talker these past couple years.” He leaned in as the bar doors swished shut, blurring the boundaries of personal space. His voice dropped to low a rasp. “You cut his throat a little too deep for that, remember?”

The hand on Medic's shoulder tightened briefly, fingers digging almost painfully into his skin. And then it was gone, and the Heavy was leaning back in his seat and bringing a bottle to his lips. Medic remained very still for a moment.

_So that is how it is to be._

“Should I be watching my back off the field as well as on it?” he asked quietly, accepting the glass of ice water one of the remaining waiters brought over. He waved away the accompanying menu.

“Wouldn't hurt to lock your door at night. Not that it'd stop him. He knows better, though, they all do. The team's back together.”

The Heavy grinned then, broadly and fiercely, and the expression took twenty years off his face.

“Never thought I'd see the day,” he said. There was a note of nostalgia to his voice. “To be frank I didn't think we'd all make it this far, old 'n ugly as we are. _Mercenary_ isn't exactly a line of work that offers high life expectancy rates.”

“It is if you're good at you're job,” Medic said, sipping his ice water. “Which you clearly are. The years have taken worse tolls on younger men, you know.”

The Heavy's grin widened. Medic decided to count it as another point in his favour.

“I take it you have been working all this time?” he continued. The Heavy nodded.

“Yup. Emil and Samuels came with me after the first contract with BLU was up. Lotta freelancing work for a while, didn't pay too good. Spent a bit of time in Germany, actually, rounding up the last of your little goose-stepping asshole brigade. Lotta you krauts looking to get their heads kicked in, eh?”

Medic stiffened, and the Heavy caught it. He smacked him on the arm a little too hard to be good-naturedly.

“Lighten up, Medic, we're all friends here.”

 _I'm not your friend,_ the same man had growled at him only days earlier. Was he to believe that had changed so quickly? Was he to believe that he could trust a single one of these men, least of all the hulking giant leering in the chair beside him? Butchers. Thugs. Guns for hire, and little else. That was what they were when he left them, and he knew that because he had been one of them too. That they had all returned over thirty years later to a life of violence and danger told him that none of them had really changed.

But then, he was there too, wasn't he?

“Ended up in 'Nam after that,” the Heavy continued, leaning back to drape his arms casually over the back of the empty chair beside him, and to rest his hand on the back of Medic's chair. “Did some dirty goddamn work over there, but it paid better. That's where Emil learned his fancy hand talking, too. What's it called, signing? Before that the poor fucker just carried a notebook around with him, couldn't say shit if he couldn't get his hands on a pen. And Samuels blew out one of his eardrums standing too close to a goddamn AA gun, so it works for him too. Ain't that right, Samuels!”

Across the room at his table with the Scout and Sniper, the Soldier's head perked up. He cupped a hand to his left ear, gnarled and cauliflowered from too many blunt blows to the head. The Heavy grinned and brought a thumb to his chin, then made two Vs with his fingers and clapped them together. Medic didn't understand the gesture, but he understood the single finger that it got in response. The Heavy chuckled and reached for his beer again.

“Are they the only two that stayed with you?” Medic asked, pretending not to see the gesture the Scout made in his direction, or the way the Soldier grinned at it.

“Yup,” the Heavy said again. “Lost touch with the others. Didn't know half of them were alive until this fucking job rolled around. Imagine my surprise that old Greg hadn't blown himself to bits without constant supervision on him and his little toys. Still has all his fingers, too. Son of a bitch.”

The Demoman was at a table with the Engineer in the far corner of the room, both of them smoking thick cigars that filled the large room with a thin, acrid layer of smoke. The Engineer was not actually sitting down. Merely reclining on the odd mechanical cradle that made up his legs and a portion of his lower body. Medic had no idea what had happened, if anything, or if he like his son had simply grown tired of his standard appendages and decided to “upgrade” himself. Replacing a non-dominant hand with a multipurpose prosthetic was one thing. Cutting yourself nearly in half was entirely another. He'd already decided not to bring it up.

“Sven was living on a boat,” the Heavy grunted, as though the notion offended him. “Can you believe that? The man's the best shot this side of the goddamn Andes and he's out there shacked up on a fucking tugboat, out in the middle of fucking nowhere, living off fish and seaweed and I dunno what the fuck else. Had to rent my own boat to go out and find him. Is it just me, or did he get smaller?”

Medic risked a glance. The Sniper, unlike his current RED counterpart, had never been a tall man. He was short and petite, and many a joke was made about his rifle being both taller and heavier than him. But hidden now behind an impressive, willowy grey beard, he appeared even more shrunken. His eyes were nearly hidden behind thick, wiry brows, and Medic had not once seen him without his floppy hat. It was interesting, the traits that he could compare between the classes. The first Sniper was also inordinately fond of his headgear, if he remembered correctly. Perhaps it was simply a quirk of the occupation.

“People naturally shrink as they age,” Medic said casually. He sipped his ice water and looked the Heavy over out of the corner of his eye. _“Most_ people.”

The Heavy grunted again.

“Tell that to Bea, eh? I mean she wasn't ever one'a those skinny model types, but _damn."_

It was fortunate the BLU Pyro's suit was not made of the same rubbery asbestos that were currently Mann Co. regulation. She had not aged gracefully.

“I found her working in a prison overseas,” the Heavy said with a grimace. “Nasty stuff. Didn't even recognize her at first. And hell, you've seen Conagher. Man's put on, what, hundred and fifty, two hundred pounds?  Ugly sonovabitch, too. It's a damn good thing he hadn't lost his mind after all that time on his own, watching cowboy movies and welding shit to himself. He seemed happy enough to come back to work, though. Not that he's ever been one for chatting.”

“Most men in our line of work are not great conversationalists.”

“And thank Christ for that. Is your new Scout as chatty as our boy?”

Medic snorted.

“Worse.”

He thought suddenly of the young Bostonian, all swagger and confidence and loud, constant bravado. Big bark, little bite. But the boy was not toothless. He was as good as any of them once the starting bell rang, no matter how much guff Medic and the others gave him. Perhaps he had been too harsh with him on occasion. He made a mental note to apologize for that, if he ever got the chance.

But that was a dangerous line of thinking, and too early in the game to be worrying about what he may not get to do once it was all over. Medic turned his full attention back to the Heavy.

“The scars are new,” he said conversationally, and the man's hand immediately went to his face. He rubbed his jaw in a way that was suspiciously close to self-consciousness.

“New to _you,”_ he grumbled. “I've been looking at 'em in the mirror for a solid decade and a half now, courtesy of my ex-wife.”

Medic nearly spat out his drink. He couldn't hide the surprise on his face.

“I would never have thought of you as the marrying type.”

The Heavy grinned again, the scars across his mouth making his lips stretch awkwardly.

“Apparently I'm not. I said _ex,_ didn't I?”

Medic continued staring, waiting for more of an explanation than that. Perhaps he had no right to one, but it was a detail that had truly caught him off guard. The Heavy dropped his grin and sighed.

“I tried to settle down,” he said leaning forward to rest the bulk of his weight on his elbows. The table creaked slightly in protest. “Tried my hand at civilian life, had a house and a dog and the whole deal with the white picket fence. It was never gonna work our, but I figured I had to kill the time somehow.”

“Marriage as a hobby,” Medic mused, leaning forward as well. “I'm afraid I fail to see the benefits of such a practice.”

“You're telling me.” The man took another swig of beer. “Not a lotta rewards for a lotta damn work. The only good thing I ever got out of it was the kid, to be honest.”

Medic nearly knocked over what was left of his ice water.

“She's all grown now,” the Heavy said with a small smile, noticing his distress. “Just got her teaching certificate. Phoned me up last week after her first day with a room of second graders. Now I've had long days, and you and I we've seen some shit, but I have never heard a person sound so goddamn tired in my life. But she loved it. She's happy in her work. And I guess that's all any of us can ask for.”

Medic smiled back, trying to file away this new information he was being given with the mental image of the man he had known. A brutal mercenary, a killer, a beast capable of committing horrific atrocities without batting an eye. And now, a wholesome family man who loved his children. Two sides, but still of the same coin.

There was the uncomfortable sensation of looking at one's own reflection. Medic dropped his gaze, tilting his chin down to mask the sudden frown on his face.

The Heavy huffed to himself and reached for his drink again.

“What about yours?”

Medic blinked at him, not understanding.

“What about my what?”

“Your kid,” the man said, upending the last of his beer. “You got a daughter, right? What's her name, Ingrid? Irene?”

“Irena,” Medic said automatically. And then, “She is dead.”

The Heavy's eyebrows shot up. There was an awkward pause.

“Jesus. I didn't think she was that old.”

Medic wanted to leave. He wanted to be back in his room, anywhere but having this conversation with this man.

“She wasn't.”

The Heavy looked at him from behind his tinted glasses. In this lighting, and at the angle he was sitting, Medic couldn't see his eyes.

“You got anyone left?” he asked, far more gently than Medic would have thought him capable of. He shook his head stiffly. A necessary lie, likely one of many he would have to tell. The Heavy sniffed.

“Well,” the he said, clapping a heavy hand to Medic's shoulder again, squeezing more lightly than before. “Good thing you're back with us, doctor. It's not good for a man to be on his own for too long.”

It was a ploy. A trick, to bring his guard down, to wheedle grains out truth out of him, one shattered lie at a time. This kinship was not real. It would never be real between them again.

Medic smiled tightly at him.

“There are worse things for a man to be than alone.”

The Heavy stared at him for a long moment. He patted him on the back, twice, before letting his hand fall away.

“Ain't that the truth,” he muttered.

It would have been easy for Medic to excuse himself back to his room after that. To slip away relatively unnoticed and hide away, separate himself from these colourful characters of his past. It would only be a few hours of relief, but it would have been worth it.

But Medic did not leave the bar.

He remained where he sat, watching and listening to the men drinking and playing cards, catching up with each other as he was catching up with them. He and the Heavy had nothing else to say, but he didn't have the stomach for silence. It would be better to not be alone with his thoughts. The drinks he ordered had no effect, but the simply act of drinking gave him comfort.

“Better rest up,” the big man said, hitting Medic's chest lightly with the back of his hand as he stretched. The hours had passed without either of them noticing. It was late. “We're rolling out early tomorrow. Orders came in.”

“Where are we headed?” Medic asked, mildly annoyed that he had to tilt his head upward to look his companion in the face. The Heavy shrugged.

“Dunno. Where we're told. I'd get a good night's sleep if I were you, Medic. This is where the real work starts. The boys have been itching for a good fight, and if the Boss is in a good mood we just might get one.”

The sharpness of his grin was like a knife in the poorly lit bar.

“Here's hoping you've still got your edge, old man. Wouldn't want you be be caught off guard by a friendly face.”

 


	10. The Good Times Are Killing Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gonna be a long author's note at the end for this one

“Did you really tell your mother about me?” Spy had asked, when he couldn't stand it anymore. In the seat beside him, mostly hidden beneath his akubra, what was visible of Sniper's face turned a deep, heated red.

“What?” he grunted, not moving the hat from his face. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, and slumped as he was his knobbly knees were wedged uncomfortably against the back of the seat in front of him. The armrest between them was pulled firmly down. An ineffective barrier, but a barrier nonetheless.

“Your mother recognized me by my accent,” Spy pressed, quiet enough that the passengers nearest to them would not be able to overhear. “She said you used to write to her about _some Frenchman._ I assume that is _moi?”_

Sniper shifted in his seat, as though trying to dig his way deeper into it with his shoulder blades.

“Couldn't keep her bloody mouth shut,” Spy heard the man murmur in a small, defeated voice. He hesitated, unsure how to proceed now that he had confirmation. Confirmation of _what_ exactly was another matter entirely.

“What did you tell her?” he asked, after another few minutes of silence. Sniper sighed so hard his hat shifted.

“Nothin' she didn't need to know.”

“And what what did she need to know, exactly?”

Sniper's crossed arms tightened around himself.

“Doesn't matter now.”

Spy stared at the man for a long moment, then turned to face forward in his seat. He stared at the back of the seat in front of him and pondered what that meant. What could have been so important for Sniper – sullen, taciturn, infuriatingly uncommunicative Sniper – reveal details of their transgressions to his mother, of all people?

And what would he even tell her? Details? Spy tried to frame the conversations in his head, but all his jetlagged, heatstricken mind was able of coming up with were lewd absurdities.

_Dear Mum, today the Frenchman bent me over the industrial sink in the supply closet and we would have been caught by an American if not for the handkerchief stuffed in my mouth._

_Dear Mum, last week I pushed the Frenchman into a semi-exposed alcove on the battlefield and nearly got us both shot because I'm too inept to unhook a belt._

_Dear Mum, we couldn't keep our hands to ourselves and ended up missing a whole day of work._

_Dear Mum, the Frenchman made me cry while I came and we didn't talk about it at dinner._

Spy grimaced and shook his head. No. Absolutely not. While he had never been particularly close with his own mother by any stretch of the imagination, he was fairly certain that was not the sort of conversation healthy people had with their parents. Sniper wouldn't share anything like that. He barely shared anything at all, least of all with him. Not that they had much time for chit chat, going at each other as they were during those few brief months after joining RED. There was a lot of sex, and then suddenly there wasn't. Spy couldn't remember exactly why it was they had stopped.

He frowned.

Unless it wasn't about the sex.

“ _He likes you,”_ Miss Pauling had said, with an irritating air of calm. _Like,_ as in what? Enjoyed the company of? Was friends with? Cared about?

And suddenly Spy wanted to hit himself. He wanted to bang his forehead into the hard plastic back of the seat in front of him because he was so _stupid,_ why was he always so stupid about these things? His chosen profession involved ferreting out the deepest and darkest secrets of those around him, and yet he couldn't see even the most obvious of issues when it was right in front of his face, involving those closest to him.

They had stopped having sex because Sniper had stopped coming to him for sex. Because Sniper was waiting for _him_ to come to him. For sex, or something else. Something _more._ And he didn't. Because he thought he didn't need to. He thought if the bushman wanted something from him he should have no trouble lurching out of a dark corner and grabbing it, as he had done so many times before. But of course he didn't. Of course he couldn't. Not with this.

“Why didn't you say something?” he asked, his voice far more delicate than was appropriate in such an open space.

Beneath his hat, Sniper's face flushed the colour of an overripe strawberry.

“Fer Chrissake,” he mumbled.“What're you bringin' up for _now?”_

“Because I didn't know,” Spy said honestly, and Sniper let out a bark of laughter.

“You didn't-” He sat up straighter, pushed his hat back so the gleam of his eyes were just visible in its shadow. The ghost of a smile dry slid from his face. “You didn't know?”

Spy shook his head. The Australian took a deep breath and let it all out again in a shaky little huff. He sunk back into his seat.

“That solves that, then.”

Spy stared as he readjusted his hat and wriggled back into a more comfortable position for sleeping.

“That's it?” he said, caught off guard. Sniper simply shrugged.

“It was almost six bloody years ago, mate. No use worryin' about it now.”

And that was all he said for the rest of the flight.

 

* * *

 

They didn't go back to the house. Miss Pauling's little grey car was waiting for them in the airport parking lot, sweltering after days of sitting in the sun. They all collapsed into it, sweaty and exhausted, and waiting for the lady to take them wherever she wanted. Sniper took the front passenger seat. Demo graciously allowed Spy to fall asleep on him in the back.

Their first stop was a rundown storage garage that had a sun-bleached, fly-stained “back in ten minutes” sign hanging on the gate. Miss Pauling pulled a pair of rusty – bloodstained? – bolt cutters from the trunk and cut the chain with minimal effort before driving straight in.

They arrived in one car and left in two. Sniper was overjoyed to find his van still running after two years in storage.

“He's nae the only one surprised,” Demo muttered to Spy with a small grin, the two of them watching the lanky man hoot and holler and gesticulate as he inspected his vehicle. They had the small car to themselves after that. Demo took the front, with his feet kicked up onto the dashboard, and Spy stretched out as much as he was able across the back seats. Miss Pauling drove in exasperated silence and Sniper followed behind as they headed toward what was presumably to become their new base.

As it turned out, it was one of their _old_ bases. One that they were not happy to see.

Badwater Basin was nobody's favourite place.

It was generally agreed that the place used to be a factory or processing plant of some kind, judging by all the heavy machinery still lying around, but no one could ever agree on the specific purpose of the place. That wasn't their job. Their job was to stop it from being blown up, which they didn't always succeed at.

But there it still stood, intact and abandoned, a great hulking outline of darkness against the skyline, visible only because it blacked out the stars. They had been driving for hours, but Spy hadn't bothered lifting his head to see exactly where they were. Now, leaning forward between the front seats, he was wide awake.

Miss Pauling slowed the car to a crawl as they approached the high chain link gate, topped with razor wire. There was a guard booth that Spy had never once seen occupied. When they pulled up beside it, she climbed out of the car without stopping the engine. Illuminated by the headlights of Sniper's van, Spy and Demo watched anxiously as she entered the booth and hit the switch that allowed the gate to slowly roll aside. It felt wrong to be out here in the dark, alone. It felt as though there were unseen eyes on them, closing in from all sides. Spy's hand lingered near his pocket, where his balisong was folded and waiting. As far as he knew the others were unarmed.

“The power's still running,” Miss Pauling said as she slid quickly back into her seat, putting the car in gear and driving forward before the gates were fully open. “Which is good. I think. Hopefully it means the lights and the water will work.”

“Are we alone?” Spy asked, looking out the back window to make sure Sniper was following alright.

“It looks like it. There weren't any tire tracks, and judging by all the dust no one's been in there for a while.”

“Is there any other way inside?”

“The valley is pretty naturally fortified, Spy. That's why we stuck you out here. The only way for any groups or vehicles to get into the base is through that gate. We should be clear.”

Spy stared out at the dark building, searching the windows for any sign of light or movement. There was nothing. That did nothing to lessen his nerves.

The first thing Miss Pauling did when they got inside was check the Respawn system. She left them in the dormitory block – unsettlingly familiar, even though the beds were stripped and all personal mementos had been removed from the walls – to settle in and stake out their respective sleeping areas. Spy and Demo quickly agreed it would be best for them all to sleep in one room the time being, until they could complete a thorough search of the base. Even Sniper agreed, though he seemed reluctant to leave his van. It would be for only one night, hopefully.

When Miss Pauling returned, she found them dressing the mattresses they'd dragged out into what had formerly been used as a sort of lounge. It must have been a large office space when the facility was running, but the mercs had set up chairs and a sofa and a low table, good for a casual meal or a game of poker. In truth, Pyro had been the only one to really use this place. They stuffed it with stolen pillows and colouring books, and the rest of the men were forever picking up broken crayons from the floor whenever they spent time inside. The walls used to be covered in drawings. Shaky, childlike crayon and marker art, held up with push pins and masking tape. Spy had never paid any attention to it before. And now all of that was gone. The furniture, the pillows, the scribbles. The room had been gutted. Only the holes in the wall and a few stray bits of tape remained.

The power was working and Respawn was still fully operational, Miss Pauling told them, and they all heaved a collective sigh of relief.

Their own mortality was something they all had had to confront in their years after leaving RED, or so Spy assumed. He'd certainly had quite a shock the first time he broke a bone on the run and had to be stopped by a horrified Erik after his first instinct was to reach for his gun. A trip through Respawn would have set the bone right up. But there had been no Respawn.

The technology had terrified him, once upon a time. Now the thought of it brought him comfort.

“We'll have to go over everything in the morning,” Miss Pauling was saying, turning down the sheets of her mattress, which had pushed a respectful distance away from the others. “The water should still be on, but I don't know if we'll find any food. So if anyone brought any snacks, now would be a good time to share them.”

That earned a few chuckles. Enough to lull them into just enough of a comfortable state to turn out the lights and put their heads on the pillows. None of them expected to truly sleep, but jet lag was a particularly potent and insidious form of exhaustion. Sometime between pulling the coarse blankets over his legs and the sun rising over the surrounding hills, Spy drifted off into a deep, uneasy sleep.

Two days later, Soldier and the others were pounding at the gates.

 

* * *

 

“That does not sound like Doktor,” Heavy said, when he was told The Lie. The great falsehood about Medic and his absence. Internally, Spy was relieved. He was ecstatic that someone, finally someone, questioned his story. Someone at last spoke up and said “I don't believe he would do that to you.”

He wanted to hug Heavy in that moment. He wanted to thank him.

“You didn't know him,” he spat instead, hating the way the giant's brows knit together in hurt and confusion. To soften the blow, he added, “And neither did I, apparently.”

The subject was not broached again.

Scout had been mauled by a bear. Pyro had nearly burned Heavy's house down. Soldier had a girlfriend now, which he kept saying very loudly and every time he did Heavy would clench his fists so loudly his knuckles popped. These were just a few things that had happened in Siberia that had Miss Pauling putting her face in her hands. The rest were absurdities. Spy couldn't believe them, even if all four of the others corroborated each other's stories.

Scout volunteered as guinea pig to test the Respawn system, on account of vicious slash across his abdomen.

Well, he didn't so much volunteer as he wondered aloud if it really still worked and would speed the healing process, to which Soldier responded by pulling a gun from somewhere in his trousers and blowing the back of Scout's head out through his face. Scout never saw it coming.

Soldier didn't see it coming, either, when Scout jogged out of the Respawn room, healthy and whole, and slugged him so hard his teeth rattled.

The two of them were on opposite sides of the room now, where they couldn't hit each other anymore. Miss Pauling's orders.

Food was a very immediate concern, which Sniper solved in typical fashion by going outside and shooting something. He went out ranging and returned with some type of antelope slung over the hood of his van. Spy didn't even know such things could be found in America, much less in their own back yard. But Sniper set straight away to gutting and skinning it, carefully slicing away the most valuable cuts of meat to be cooked as he saw fit. The rest of them merely watched. This was out of their collective expertise. Heavy knew all about hunting bears and Demo reckoned he could cook a sheep if hard-pressed. Spy himself knew how to catch and skin rabbits and other small creatures, but Scout and Soldier had likely never stalked anything more wild than a tin of beans. Whatever Pyro knew how to do, they kept it to themselves.

It was another several hours before the beast was ready to be eaten. Sniper elected for a slow smoking over an open fire, set in one of the covered but open areas of the base, where they could still see the stars and the gates.

“Pity Truckie isn't here, with all those fancy sauces of his,” Sniper said quietly as the food was portioned out. Spy did not complain that his was a little burnt at one corner, or that he seemed to have missed out on all the seasoning the bushman claimed to have added. Food was food. He'd faced enough hunger in his life to know better than to sneer at a hot meal when it was offered. Besides, it really wasn't that bad. A little dry, perhaps. But he could forgive it.

“There is no sign of Engineer?” Heavy asked, looking at Miss Pauling over the fire. She shook her head.

“He's covered his tracks, wherever he is,” she said, leaning back to rest on the pile of tires.

“Could he 'ave been taken?” Demo asked, his one eye shining golden in the firelight. Again she shook her head.

“If he wanted to be found we would have found him by now. The Conaghers have never been very subtle.”

“Conagher?” Scout piped up, dropping quickly into the open seat beside Miss Pauling. “S'that Engie's name or something?”

Spy watching Miss Pauling close her eyes and take a deep breath. Whether in reaction to Scout's proximity – the boy's fondness for her had not gone unnoticed in the slightest, nor had the fact that it was highly unappreciated – or at her own slip up he wasn't sure. But all eyes were on her now, waiting for a response. Spy remembered suddenly just how little these men knew about each other. Even after working together as long as they did, how few of them even knew each other's names.

“Yes,” Miss Pauling said after a long, defeated moment. “The Engineer's name is Mr. Conagher.”

“What's his first name?” Scout asked around a mouthful of antelope.

“Dell,” Spy answered. Miss Pauling glared at him and he shrugged. “We are no longer under contract, correct? I see no harm in revealing our identities, if we so choose.”

There was brief, sudden stillness as the rest of them realized the truth of his words. This wasn't the Gravel Wars anymore. There were no contracts with clauses against fraternization. Technically, none of them even _had_ to be here.

“Still,” Miss Pauling said, breaking the moment. “The Engineer isn't hear to speak for himself. He might not have wanted his identity known.”

“Bit late for that,” Demo grunted. “What the bloody hell kind of a name is _Dell,_ though?”

“I've heard worse,” Spy replied, coolly meeting the Scotsman’s eye. _“Tavish.”_

Demo squawked in objection.

“Oh, that's all well and good, comin' from you! What d'they call you then? _Pierre?”_

“Close,” Spy said with a wry smile. “My name is René.”

Scout snorted and nearly choked on his food.

“ _René?_ Ain't that a girl's name?”

“It can be,” Spy admitted. “It is a French name. Though there is a different spelling for the feminine form.”

Scout's grin only widened.

“Oh yeah? And what do you know about the _feminine form?”_

Spy did not dignify that with a response. Instead, he reached up and peeled off his gloves, and then his mask, and combed thin fingers through his greying hair. He opened his eyes to raised eyebrows and open mouths from his teammates, but no one said anything. It wasn't a fuss or a statement. He was simply more comfortable without the itchy, sweaty fabric covering his head. Years ago, he would have balked at the notion of unmasking himself in front of these people. The fear would have stopped him, though he would have made other excuses. Fear. Erik had taken that fear. Now, it was only a face.

“I am Misha,” Heavy said, when everyone had stopped staring at Spy. Scout scrunched up his face.

“Okay, now _that's_ a girl name.”

“Is small for Mikhail,” Heavy explained patiently, reaching for second helpings. “Is not name for girls in Russia.”

“My name is Jane,” Soldier said suddenly, very loudly. Everyone turned to stare at him.

“Jane,” Demo repeated flatly. There was a stubborn set to Soldier's jaw as he nodded.

“It is not a girl's name. It is the name my mother gave me. It is my name. It is not a girl's name.”

“Uh-” Scout started. Miss Pauling cleared her throat, quickly interrupting.

“Well my name is Laura, and it _is_ a girl's name in every country I've ever been to.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Spy saw Soldier visibly relax. The man was still wearing his helmet. Something to look into later, perhaps.

“I got a niece named Laura,” Scout said, grinning crookedly. “I'm her Uncle Nan, 'cause she can't say _Nate_ yet. Some'a the other kids picked it up, too.”

“How many little ones are there?” Heavy asked. Scout actually had to take a moment to think about it.

“Well my brother Tommy's got three kids, and Chris's got four- no, five, Amy just had the baby last month, actually, Stu's got one on the way, and Vinnie and Ivan – that's uh, well Ma calls Ivan Vinnie's “friend,” but only Sammy's dumb enough to fall for that shit anymore – anyway, they got a kid staying with them right now but we dunno how long that's gonna work out, what with their situation and all. But yeah, there's nine right now, gonna be ten soon. Six boys 'n three girls. Laura's the second youngest, she's gonna be four in September. Ma's havin' a lot of fun dressing her up and stuff.”

He shoved another large bite of food into his mouth while the rest of them processed that volley of information. Scout had spoken of his brothers often enough for Spy to recognize some of their names, but for some reason he had never been able to imagine them all as a collective, functioning family. The idea of a close family, with siblings and children and brothers and sisters-in-law was entirely foreign to him. He had never had anything even close to that in his youth, and any other family he'd been a part of over the years had been a ruse. Until Erik.

Erik was his family now, he realized with a jolt.

He'd never thought of it that way before. Never put any name to their relationship beyond the casual term “lovers,” and never thought about it much beyond that. Thinking of the future was something he'd become accustomed to not doing in his line of work.

Now his mind wandered back to their little house by the lake. To the quiet little town in Northern Ireland that they had only just begun to call home. It _could_ be a home, couldn't it? Couldn't they be a family? With the birds and the cat, just the two of them. And the house did have another bedroom. Perhaps someday they could be a _real_ family, with ch-

Spy shook the thought from his head so violently he nearly choked.

No.

No, he would not go down that road. Not in these uncertain times, and not ever. No. No, it was far better to leave it alone. Forever.

Everyone was looking expectantly at Sniper now. The man was too busy poking at the fire and staring into the embers to notice. Demo gave him a gentle nudge in the ribs.

“Hm? What- Oh. I, uh...” He swallowed. “Piss it. Jack. M'name's Jack.”

Spy frowned.

“No it isn't,” he said, and Sniper looked at him with raised eyebrows. “Your name is Laurence.”

Sniper's face went immediately pink.

“Fuck's sake, how did you- Bloody Spook, you've known all our names all along, haven't you?”

“Your mother told us,” Spy told him placidly. Sniper's blush deepened to a shade closer to red. He pushed his hat further down over his eyes.

“Fer god's sake, Mum...”

“Why lie about name?” Heavy asked with a frown, and the bushman shook his head.

“I wasn't- wasn't _lying,_ alright? Nobody ever calls me L- _that_ 'cept my mum. It's Jack. I've been called Jack s'long as I can remember.”

“How do you get Jack out of Laurence?” Spy asked, smirking slightly at the man's discomfort. It was not often he got to see the Sniper flustered, and to see him upset over something so simple brought a certain, little joy to his life.

“My middle name's Jonathan,” Sniper admitted grudgingly. “After my dad. And _his_ dad was John, but everyone called him Jack, so I'm Jack too. Not Jonathan, not Johnny, not bloody  _Laurence._ M'just Jack.”

“I don't mind sticking to titles,” Demo said with a shrug. “Better than tryin' to remember which name goes with which one'a yer sorry faces.”

“Fine by me,” Sniper agreed readily.

“Me too,” Scout said around the food in his mouth.

“And me,” Soldier added. He'd taken off his helmet sometime when Spy wasn't looking. He turned to his left. “What about you, Pyro?”

And suddenly every eye was swiveling in the direction of the masked firebug.

They had been silently throughout the entire conversation. Though they were seated next to Spy, he'd almost forgotten they were there. But now their head jerked up at the sound of their name, away from their cleaned plate, and they looked at all the faces turned expectantly toward them.

There was a moment of complete stillness, and then Pyro reached for the hem of their mask. They fidgeted with it in a manner Spy could only describe as nervous.

“You don't have to,” he said softly, and they looked at him quickly. He shook his head. “No one will make you, _mon ami._ Your secrets are your own.”

The Pyro stared at him through the black, soulless plastic of their mask. Spy knew only a little about what rested inside the thick rubber suit, only so much as he could pry out of Erik when the topic arose. He knew enough to understand their reluctance, and to be unsure if he even _wanted_ to see what they were hiding.

After another moment of fidgeting, their hands dropped to their lap. A collective exhale went around the campfire. Soldier put a hand on their shoulder and they leaned into the touch.

“What is Doktor's name?” Heavy asked quietly, when the moment of tension had passed. And now all eyes were on Spy. His breath caught in his throat.

Across the fire, Miss Pauling shook her head imperceptibly.

“Apologies,” he said, swallowing. “But I don't believe that is my business to tell. It took him long enough to share that even with me, and he has very good reasons for remaining anonymous. He will simply have to be the Medic for the time being.”

Heavy nodded understandingly, but looked down in disappointment nonetheless.

Spy wondered if the giant still had feelings for Erik. Then he decided he didn't want to know. It would be kinder, for himself, not to know.

The rest of the meal was finished nearly in silence, save for the crackling of the fire and the mushy sounds of open-mouthed chewing. René cleaned his plate. By the time they were all through, less than half of the carcass remained. Sniper set himself to the task of putting out the fire and cleaning up the leftovers and the rest of them left him to it. It was late, and they were all full and sleepy and feeling more like a team than they had in years. With Heavy back, especially, the absence of the missing two was acutely noticed.

Sniper elected to sleep in his van, so he wouldn't disturb anyone coming to bed later on when he was through. No one argued with him.

“Erik,” René murmured, before he could think better of it as he helped Heavy prepare the sheets on his bed. Heavy looked at him with raised eyebrows, and Spy met his eyes. “His name is Erik.”

The Russian blinked, swallowed, and then nodded. Spy turned away and found his own bed. For once, he fell asleep in minutes.

The next morning, again, they were awoken by pounding at the gates.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. i will literally never reveal or assign any identity to Pyro, probably ever. least of all gender. nah. not feelin it.
> 
> 2\. with the exceptions of Pyro and (in some aspects) Medic, my headcanon backstories for everyone else can be found [ here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3340454/chapters/7306157) if you're curious
> 
> 3\. the end of this chapter and the last chapter, the events between Medic and Spy are occurring simultaneously. Medic is talking to the Classic Heavy at the same time as Spy is talking to his team. the next two chapters, 11 and 12, will also be happening at the exact same time. i just wanted to state it perfectly clearly in case i'm unable to convey it through text, or instead of leaving it open for interpretation. that doesn't mean their timelines are going to be continuously parallel for the rest of the story, or have been for the first part of it, but absolutely by the end of chapters 9 and 10 and continuing through 11 and 12 the events are simultaneous. so. hope that makes sense. thank you for your time <3


	11. Iron

The days ran together. Of course they did. How could he be expected to keep them all straight when they were all the same?

Wake up at six-thirty. Earlier, if interrupted, or if he wanted any of the good coffee.

Be suited up and ready for battle no later than ten. The fighting would not start for another hour at least, but he liked to be prepared. To have time to double check his equipment, and make sure he looked presentable.

Fight. The battle could be over in minutes or in hours. It depended largely on luck, but a solid strategy never did any harm. The readiness of the opposite team was always a factor as well.

If victorious, celebrate. Pats on the back, drinks, compliments, friendly wagers on the odds of the next day.

If defeated, slouch and grumble. Point fingers and direct blame. Drink. Argue. Challenge to do better.

In the evenings, relax as much as they were allowed. Card and board games. Watch whatever horrible American sport was the least obstructed by static on the television. Fill out requisition forms, repair damaged equipment, try to walk out the lesser injuries not picked up by the Respawn system. Drink. Drink, heavily, to forget what they had done that day and what they must do again the next.

Day after day. There were only minor details to distinguish one from another, but why bother? Why try to quantify this time? Months passed as easily as weeks when one didn't focus on the hours slipping by. Years could pass this way. And they did. Years, and nothing changed.

René was standing in a dark room, and his surroundings were very familiar to him. The metal table, which could be raised or lowered or tilted as needed gleamed coldly in a pool of artificial light. There was a row of cabinets behind it – wasn't there? The details were fuzzy. He couldn't quite see them.

There were beds behind the row of curtains, standing like shrouds, waving slightly though there was no breeze at all. The air was so still it felt almost wrong to shift it with his breath. René turned in place, looking around the large room with its gleaming white floors and white walls. He bumped into something solid and looked down at the desk beside him. Old dark wood. The surface was covered in rough, careless scratches. Such a pity, to care so little for something so beautiful. His hands were bare when he placed his palm on the wood and found it cold. Under his fingertips, the surface felt smooth and perfect and unblemished, even when he touched the deepest of gouges. Odd.

And then he was not alone in the room.

He felt it before he had proof. From the darkest side of the room, where the white, sterile light didn't quite seem to reach, a man was striding toward him. He was tall and broad of shoulder, and his steps clicked on the floor with the timing and precision of a well-kept pocket watch. René couldn't see his face, but he knew he loved him.

The man stopped in front of him and he smiled. Whatever he wanted to say, an automatic greeting most likely, caught in his throat like a cough.

_I can't speak, Erik,_ he wanted to say, reaching for the man. _You'll have to speak for me._

The man reached for him too, and put a hand on his shoulder. The hand was cold.

That was when René became afraid.

Erik was not cold. Far from it, he was _hot._ There was a fire deep inside him that seemed to burn day and night, even in the coldest of temperatures. The heat was enough to make him kick the blankets to the end of the bed while René shivered beside him. It was enough to smother and scorch when their bodies were pressed together. Skin to skin, in moments of passion, the heat was almost unbearable. Painful, even. And yet he would never, ever let go.

But he could feel no warmth at all from the fingers digging into his shoulder. The cold spread through him, numbing him, making his joints ache. René tried to pull away, but another hand closed on his other shoulder.

René began to shiver. He was trembling, and there was a scream perched under his chin, but he was so cold that his jaw had locked itself shut. He couldn't speak and he couldn't scream.

The man began to shake him.

_You're hurting me,_ he wanted to say, as much as he wanted to struggle out of the vice like grip. _Erik, please. Stop._

He forced himself to lift his eyes, to raise his gaze to Erik's face to ask why he was doing this. But it was not Erik's face. Or maybe it was, but he just didn't want to believe it. Erik had never looked at him so coldly. Not ever, not in all the years they'd known each other. His eyes were shards of flint in a face made of stone, for all its warmth and expression. Stiff and pale and unblinking, unfeeling, unloving. The eyes pierced René's heart and froze the blood in his veins. The cold burned worse than any open flame.

And then there was a scream, or something like it. A terrible sound. A high, shrill wail that grew louder with every second. René wanted to clap his hands over his ears to block it out. The thing that wasn't Erik shook him harder, gripped his shoulders with fingers tipped with surgical steel, biting into his flesh and holding him fast. The wail was earsplitting, and still the thing was shaking him. Shaking him so hard he could feel cracks forming in his frozen body, little fault lines that threatened to splinter and shatter, shaking him apart until there was nothing left of him.

Another sound cut through the wail, coming from Erik's closed, stone mouth.

_Die!_ it screamed.

_Die! Die!_

Wasn't that what it was saying?

_Die?_

_Spy._

“ _Spy!”_

“Spy!”

René's eyes flew open.

The awful wail was still in the air, and he was still being shaken, but he was warm now. The hands holding him were not clawed or cold, they were thin and wrapped in white bandages. The voice wasn't calling for his death. It was calling his name.

“Spy, _please!”_ Scout begged, standing over him, wide eyes darting over his shoulder. “C'mon, man, you gotta wake up!”

René sat up so suddenly it made him dizzy and Scout staggered away from him with a yelp. He was nearly knocked off his feet by the Heavy's elbow as the man hurriedly pulled on his shirt. Sirens were blaring from the loudspeaker in the corner of the ceiling. Around them, the room was chaos.

“What is happening?” Spy asked, accepting Scout's outstretched hand to haul himself to his feet.

“There's somethin' out there,” the boy said, throwing a nervous glance toward the windows. “Somethin' big, alright, we heard a boom and Heavy said he thought it was an avalanche at first, 'cause of a the noise, then the perimeter alarms started going off and now sirens- how the hell were you asleep through all that? And are you alright, man, 'cause I mean you were shakin' pretty bad and you wouldn't wake up-”

“Where is Miss Pauling?” Spy demanded, cutting off the questions as he slung his jacket over his shoulders, making sure his knife was where he left it.

“Right here,” Miss Pauling said, behind him and only a few feet away. She was pulling on her shoes with one hand and loading her pistol with the other. “You okay?”

He nodded curtly. All around, the room was a flurry of activity as people pulled clothes on and tripped over blankets and pillows, fighting with inside-out shirts and shoes on the wrong foot. Spy fumbled for his mask and yanked it down over his head, barely bothering to smooth out the neckline. By the time he located both of his gloves, Miss Pauling was on her feet shouting orders.

“Everyone to the Resupply Room! Find your gear, be ready for anything!”

She caught his arm as he passed her, following his fellows.

“Are you sure you're alright?” she asked, leveling a concerned gaze at him over the rims of her glasses. The expression was familiar, and all the more uncomfortably in the wake of his dream. But her eyes were green, and he could handle that.

“Fine,” Spy said shortly, and then when she did not let go of him, “I am well enough to fight.”

Her eyes hardened, but it was enough. She nodded and let him pass.

The shrill sirens blared overhead as they raided the Resupply Room. It was a small mercy that the most basic of their weapons were still in storage. Heavy had brought his massive gun with him from Russia, and the Demoman had procured himself a wicked looking claymore which he wielded with surprising skill, but the others were completely unarmed. Scout found his bat quickly enough and loaded his scattergun with steady hands. Pyro's familiar, homemade flamethrower was quickly snatched up and tested with a few menacing puffs of flame. Soldier was already walking out the door, rocket launcher strapped to his back, shovel in one hand and shotgun in the other. Almost an an afterthought, Demo grabbed his grenade launcher and followed him just as Spy located his own revolver. Picking it up felt like shaking hands with an old friend.

His other equipment – cloak, disguise kit, and sapper – we also snatched up and quickly put in their usual places. The muscle memory was all coming back now.

“BATTLE STATIONS!” Soldier cried, leading them out into the yard. The sun was barely up, cresting the horizon and painting the sky the deep purple of a day old bruise. Or perhaps that was simply the storm clouds. Spy didn't know what time it was or how long he had slept, but glancing up at the sky only brought the vividness of his dream back to his mind. They grey clouds, and the grey of Erik's face.

He shook his head and followed the others out to assess the situation.

“Holy shit...”

Spy looked at Scout, then followed the boy's eye line to where he was staring over the high walls that surrounded the pit, separating it from the surrounding desert. His eyes widened.

“ _Mon Dieu...”_

Beneath the blanket of clouds and just visible over the walls was a massive, towering metal construct. Wider than it was tall, the flashing lights and antenna sticking up from the top of it only extended further toward the heavens. There were no visible wheels or tracks; it was as if it had fallen from the sky.

They all stood shoulder to shoulder, staring up at the thing, when it started to rain.

“This is bad,” Heavy rumbled, his voice as low as the thunder rolling in above them. His knuckles were white around the grip of his precious Sasha. Nobody argued.

“We need to get to higher ground,” Miss Pauling said, pulling off her glasses to wipe the raindrops from them with the corner of her blouse. “Up the stairs, everyone, come on.”

They all turned single file toward the stairway that led up to the Primary 'spawn room. This was all backwards. The pit was meant to be the final stage of the battle, where the bomb cart was rolled into the great set of steel doors set into the ground thus ending the match. If there was a fight to be had, they would be all be backtracking, trying to defend the course from the other way around. Spy hoped it wouldn't come to that.

Soldier's foot had just hit the top step of the stairs when all his hopes were dashed.

There was a thunderous crack, louder than any thunder or lightning, followed by a deafening mechanical screech. Spy clapped his hands over his ears as they all turned toward the source, toward the great mysterious device. There was a crack in its hull now. A split, slowly widening as a huge door slowly drew open. At first, all they could see within was darkness. And then there were shapes.

Pale silhouettes, all lined up in a row like jagged teeth jutting from the great mouth of the ship. René's heart leapt at the sight. There was something awfully familiar about those shapes, particularly the one on the right, second from the end. The familiar lines of a trim form, with a distinctive white coat trailing behind.

Erik.

It was Erik, and his team. They had come for them. For the base, for what was left of RED. For him.

And then the things began to move, and it was _not_ Erik.

A spark seemed to ripple through the line, jolting the figures to life. One by one they shook themselves upright, trembling and twitching, facing straight forward with their weapons raised in their hands. That was when Spy understood what he was seeing.

Robots.

The realization should have been absurd. It should have been a side-splitting, knee-slapping joke that he would laugh off and snort when thinking about for weeks to come. But laughter was the farthest thing from his mind, staring up at the cavernous mouth of the drop ship at the rows and rows – from his higher vantage he could now see that it wasn't simply _one_ group – of mechanical foes staring down at them.

There was a pause after the spark. Only a few seconds, and yet it felt like an eternity. And then, the bots began to move.

Miss Pauling was the first to react.

“Demo, lay down a welcome mat!” she ordered, startling the Scotsman out of his wide-eyed reverie. “Heavy, get to the top of that ramp and mow them down! Scout, Pyro, thin them out and keep them off our big guns. Soldier, I want you to kill as many of those things as you can, any way you can. You've got full combat authorization.”

Soldier's face was comprised entirely of helmet and grin as he rushed off, dashing past the others on their way back down the stairs. Heavy was waddling as fast he could to the other side of the field and Demo was already putting down sticky bombs for the robots to land on as they jumped into the pit. Spy watched them go, his heart already hammering in his chest when Miss Pauling grabbed his arm.

“Stay close to me,” she said, her nails digging in through the fabric of his sleeve. “We've got to keep them contained here, this is practically a killing floor. Don't let them get through us to the rest of the base.”

“Understood,” he said, nodding for emphasis. They checked their weapons almost in unison, and then the games began in earnest.

The RED team was not the only one with rockets or grenades. Pyro made a noise of alarm as they reflected several of the projectiles in one go, blasting them back to the source and taking out three of the bots. It was Scout, however, who drew first blood He let out a whoop as he caved in one of the metal heads with the blunt edge of his bat. The robot made a metallic screech as it collapsed, limbs jerking convulsively before shorting out and going still. Then the boy was on to another, running circles around it before kicking one spindly leg out from beneath it.

Spy did not get to see his finishing move. He shadowed Miss Pauling as she wove her way around the field, coming up behind the bots as they dropped from overhead. His sapper was the first thing in his hands, hastily slapped to the back of the first creature to land near him.

It made a sickening sound, like a clogged garbage disposal choking on waste, and staggered but it did not go down. He put his revolver to the back of its head and fired, spewing shrapnel and black oil like blood all across the pavement. Miss Pauling did something similar to hers, one of the rocket bearing ones. And then they moved on to the next.

Soldier was the first to die.

His gleeful shout of victory was quickly silenced after pulling the heads off one of the things, as his own head exploded in a shower of pink mist.

“Snipers!” Demo shouted, quickly scanning the top of the wall and firing wildly in its direction.

“Where the hell is _our_ Sniper?” Scout replied, before the wind was knocked out of him by a hard blow to the gut from the bot he was currently wrestling. Spy looked around, realizing his words to be true. They were a man down. _Three_ men down, and that was far too many for the number of enemies they were dealing with. And until Soldier got out of Respawn-

A primal battle cry heralded the American's return, sooner than Spy would have expected him. But he didn't have time to focus on the wonders of technological resurrection. Not when a small group of bots was breaking away and making for the stairwell that led to the little outpost building, giving them a straight path to where Heavy was standing.

“There,” he said, attracting Miss Pauling's attention. She nodded and followed him without hesitation.

It was a close quarters fight, and that was Spy's specialty. The bots were strong, but slow and predictable in their movements. He easily dodged the first blow, taking the opening to drive his blade deep into the thing's neck. He jerked the knife, severing the unprotected wires and tubes that apparently controlled the robot's motor functions. It fell in a heap, but the light did not go out of its eyes. When he turned around, Miss Pauling had one of them on the ground, her heel dug into its throat while she was in the process of the twisting the head off of another. He caught sight of movement on the stairs above them and bolted past her after it.

At first he saw nothing. No bots, no humans, nothing moving at all. Could he have been mistaken? Were his eyes playing tricks on him?

The hairs stood up on the back of his neck. He stepped aside, just in time for a blade to materialize and slice into the air where he had been standing.

Spy drove his elbow back, slamming painfully into the hard metal of the robot's abdomen. He grabbed the limb holding the knife before it could swing again, but failed to counter the quick jab to his shoulder. The blow knocked him off balance and nearly sent him reeling. Very near his ear, Spy heard a strange burst of static coming from the robot's head.

It was laughing at him.

He threw his weight forward, using his already bruised shoulder to push the metal man back against the wall with a crunch. Its glowing eyes mocked him as he grit his teeth, but he had silence the laughter. That was enough. A moment later, he had driven his balisong up under the machine's head, silencing it permanently.

Spy stepped back, breathing heavily as he cleaned the oil from his blade. For the first time he bothered to get a good look at his opponent. At the pattern of its face, and the way it's torso was designed with strange, functionally useless sheets of metal welded and bolted into place, also to form a pattern.

It looked like a suit. And its face looked like a mask.

It looked like a Spy.

René heard a shout from below and quickly made for the stairs. Miss Pauling had a cut across her cheek, and one lens of her glasses was cracked, but the apparent culprit was already dead at her feet. He looked at it closely, and noticed the rod of metal it held, and the pattern of its body. Its legs were clearly built for running, he noted hollowly.

He was about to call down to see if she alright, and to ask if she had noticed the robot's appearance, but his words were cut off by a new sound. A high, sustained beep. When it ended, Miss Pauling looked up at him with wide eyes. She had gone very pale.

“Respawn,” she said. “Oh god, they shut down the Respawn.”

Spy heard an explosion and a cry of pain out in the pit. He swallowed hard.

“What do we do?”

Miss Pauling flattened herself against the wall as a group of bots ran past.

“We have to go,” she called, once it was safe. “Get to Heavy, make sure he's alive. Warn the others. Meet back at the Respawn Room, there's a gate to the other half of the map. If we get it open and get to the front, we might have a chance to-”

There was another crack of a sniper rifle in the distance, and Spy's stomach clenched. _God, let it be a miss._

“Go!” she snapped, and Spy did not have to be told twice. He scrambled up the stairs as fast he could, rounding the corner to the sound of Heavy revving Sasha's barrels. Bullets were shredding the robots positioned below, but they were definitely gaining ground. Scout, Pyro, and Demo were outnumbered four to one, but they managed to hold their own for the moment. Now that Spy knew what to look for, he noticed all the horrifying details. Jarring imitations of the men he had known and fought beside and against. He wondered if the others had noticed.

“Heavy!” Spy called, ducking below the low railing for cover. “We have to go!”

“Why go when there are metal men to kill?” Heavy called back, laughing. His arm was bleeding where a large shard of shrapnel had lodged itself in his bicep, but if he noticed it at all it didn't slow him down. Spy cursed as a rocket whizzed over his head, exploding against the wall behind him.

“Respawn is down,” he told the Russian, and watched the smile slide from the man's face. “There is no healing, we have to leave _now.”_

“Where is little Miss Pauling?” Heavy asked, not taking his finger off Sasha's trigger.

“Warning the others, we have to get to the Respawn Room. The gate, we can get out if we-”

Spy watched a little blue dot appear on Heavy's chest, and start to slide its way upward. He made a split second decision and lunged.

The giant barely budged as Spy slammed all his weight into him with as much force as he could muster. A bullet ripped through the air, terrifying close, and René felt the soft spray of blood on his cheek.

When he looked up, part of Heavy's ear was gone.

“ _Move!”_ he shouted, elbowing the man ineffectively in the stomach. Heavy did not have to be told again.

By the time they made it across the field and into Respawn everyone else was already there. Miss Pauling and Demo were fiddling with the door controls, trying to rewire the thing into opening. Pyro was cradling their wounded arm, making soft whimpers from beneath their mask. Soldier was in the corner, on the floor with Scout half in his lap. The boy was limp in his arms, bleeding from a wound to the side of his head, but Spy stared until he saw the rise and fall of his chest. He was alive. They were all alive.

“Really could use that boyfriend o' yours,” Demo grumbled when he caught sight of Spy, and where Spy was looking. Miss Pauling let out a string of curses and slammed her fist into the power box.

“Open, damn it! I don't even know why we _have_ this mechanic.”

Heavy set Sasha down with an audible thud.

“Move,” he said simply. Pauling and Demo shared a glance, then stepped aside as Heavy approached the door.

With both hands, the giant gripped the grating and tore it clean off its hinges with a loud grunt. He threw the twisted metal aside and held out a hand.

“We go now.”

Soldier slung Scout over his shoulder as if he were weightless and followed behind Pyro. Spy exited last, and chanced a glance back to the field. What he saw made him really wish he hadn't.

“Bomb,” he said. “They've got a bomb.”

Strapped to a back of a giant robot, at least twice the size of the others and bearing an an uncanny resemblance to the BLU Heavy was an unmistakable warhead, the likes of which Spy had seen and fought against many a time. Even as he watched in horror, a team of smaller robots were prying open the blast doors in the floor of the pit, making way for the explosive. They meant to blow up the base.

“Run!”

The main gate was in sight. Straight across, and down a short road, and then they would be out.

But they weren't going to make it. Not with Heavy carrying his gun, and not with Soldier carrying Scout. The Demoman was limping. Pyro was wounded as well, and Spy was getting more winded with every step he took. _Damn_ the cigarettes. This was not how he wanted to things to end.

The revving of an engine might as well have been a choir of angels as Sniper's van came tearing around the corner, barely screeching to a halt in time. Sniper himself stuck his head out the window.

“ _In!”_ he shouted, gesturing wildly. “Get in the back!”

“Move it, people!” Miss Pauling cried, leading the charge. Heavy ran faster than Spy would have ever thought the man could, wrenching open the back doors of the camper and practically shoving the others inside. Spy raced forward and climbed into the front seat.

“They have a bomb,” he told the Australian, who grimaced. He double checked the rear view mirror before revving the engine again. Spy could see the blood all down the back of his shirt, coming from a nasty wound in his shoulder. That would explain where he was during the battle.

“Hold on,” Sniper said. He grit his teeth. “M'gonna ram the gate.”

Spy brace both hands against the dashboard, and Sniper put his foot down. The gate didn't stand a chance.

They were barely onto the main road when the shock wave hit. Spy watched in his side mirror as the cloud of ash and flame rose into the grey sky, billowing black and orange. The base burned behind them. And this time, Spy wondered if it would ever be put back together again.

Sniper turned on the windshield wipers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> action sequences are not something i consider myself to be good at but i think i did okay??
> 
> also i'm not exactly sticking to gameplay mechanics here so my apologies to everyone who takes that stuff very seriously. i'm really just very bad at playing tf2 to be completely honest sorry about that too


	12. Becoming the Bull

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one of the more graphically violent chapters i've written, so keep that in mind please

Sleep had never come easily to Erik.

He assumed it had, once, when he was very young. There must have been a time before the nightmares came, when he could sleep soundly through the night and drift off without fearing the horrors that lurked behind his eyelids. But those years were long ago. Too long for him to remember.

For most of his life, sleep was a burden. A limitation on his body that got in the way of his work, slowing him down and disrupting his thinking. How many hours had been wasted simply lying in the dark, still and unproductive, when there was so much work to be done? How much of his life had been lost because he could no longer keep his eyes open any longer? These were the fears that plagued him. The problem was solved, or subdued, with caffeine and adrenaline and sheer willpower. Sleep was never his friend. Sleep was the enemy.

He no longer needed it.

Over a century of fighting it, and now he had eradicated it from his life. He got tired, certainly. He found sleep helped him regain focus and recover strength, and in that it had its uses, even if he could go longer without feeling it's lack of effect. Perhaps it was only because he no longer required it that he had come to appreciate it.

But he no longer dreamed. And for that he was very grateful.

The pounding startled him out of his dozing and for a moment Erik was confused. The bed was too hard to be his own, and the body beside him was too soft to be René. Then he blinked and let his eyes adjust in the low light, and remembered where and who he was. The body was only a pillow. The bed was in a hotel room. And he was the Medic.

The pounding started again and he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, fumbling for his shirt and shrugging it onto his shoulders as he staggered toward the door. Sleep was disorienting. It took too long for his brain to return to speed after resting, it felt to him.

“ _Ja, ja,_ I'm coming,” he said loudly as his hand closed around the doorknob. It swung inward as soon as he unlocked it and knocking him back.

“Rise and shine, doctor,” the Heavy said as he strode into the room. There was a large wooden crate in his arms. “God knows you need your beauty sleep, but we've got work to do.”

Medic glared up at the man, sucking at his lip where the door had hit him and split the skin against his teeth. The Heavy was already in full uniform, and armed. There was a firearm at his hip, but Medic was far more interested in the crate currently being dropped on his unmade bed.

“What is that?” he demanded. The big man pulled a large knife from his belt and begin to pry open the corners of the crate.

“A present.”

Medic approached with narrowed eyes, watching as splinters were shed all over his sheets. There was a shipping label on the side of the crate with most of the information blacked out. The word PRIORITY was stamped across the lid in stenciled black letters. When the Heavy pulled it off, Medic's mouth fell open in surprise.

“Where did you get these?” he asked, stepping closer still, reaching for the contents of the crate. Packed in shredded paper and straw were several familiar looking instruments, all crammed in together, with what looked like even more of them underneath. Medic brushed aside a patch of packing material and laid a hand on the barrel of his Medigun.

“We... _liberated_ some supplies from one of your bases,” the Heavy said, stepping back to make room as Medic took hold of the gun's handle and pulled it from the crate, shedding strips of paper all over his best. “The box had your name on it. What the hell is that thing supposed to do, eh?”

“Heal,” Medic said, pushing the lever forward. Nothing happened, of course. The barrel was not connected to its pack, and even if it was said pack was probably empty. Nonetheless, it felt good to have the familiar weight of it back in his hands. He grinned up at the Heavy, then froze.

The Heavy was grinning at him as well. His goggles were pushed up to his forehead, making it very easy to follow the path of his eyes roving over Medic's form. The doctor remembered suddenly that he was not dressed. He wore only a pair of loose cotton pants and his dress shirt, which had been left unbuttoned and open in his haste to answer the door. His chest was bare to the world, and to the Heavy. If the way the big man was grinning was indication, he appreciated the toned muscles and thin layer of black and silver hair he found there. Part of Medic wanted to throw the Medigun at his feet and clutch his shirt closed around himself, preserving what little sense of modesty he had retained over the years. The other, quieter part of him wanted to preen under the gaze of the larger man. Draw himself to his full height, stand tall and proud in the face of cheap, vulgar appreciation.

He settled for standing very still, tightening his grip on the device in his hands just enough that his knuckles went pale and the muscles of his arms bulged beneath his shirt. The Heavy looked back to the crate, but the grin didn't entirely leave his face.

“This doesn't look like an instrument of healing to me, doctor,” he said, reaching into the packaging and pulling out a large, gleaming bone saw. Medic reached out and snatched it from his grip, letting the Medigun fall against his hip.

“That's because it isn't. _This_ is for the _hurting._ I find it much more rewarding.”

The Heavy snorted.

“'Course you do. Some damn Medic you are. You still know how to work that thing?” He gestured to the Medigun. Medic looked at him coolly.

“I invented this machine, Herr Heavy. I could no sooner forget how to operate it than I could forget my mother tongue.”

The big man gave him an odd look, but demanded no further assurances. He placed a giant hand on Medic's shoulder and squeezed. His skin felt warm even by Medic's standards.

“Suit up and bring your gear with you,” he ordered, returning his gaze to the crate and the rest of its contents. “Meet in the kitchens when you're ready, we're heading out in five. Don't hold us up.”

The callused pad of his thumb brushed over Medic's bare collarbone, and then he was walking away. He closed the door behind him, and Medic slumped as he exhaled.

He was taking too many liberties.

He thought of René, and immediately wished he hadn't. He could see the face of his lover, the face that he had come to know every line and pore of in the closest of the ways, and pictured the expression of hurt and suspicion that would be etched into his features had he just witnessed that exchanged. He saw grey eyes, darker than his own, narrowed coldly at him beneath long, dark lashes. In his mind's eyes, René turned away from him in disgust. Erik was disgusted with himself as well.

He dressed quickly, looking at himself in the mirror only when it came time to comb his hair. He didn't want to see the face looking back at him. The hard, chiseled face of a far younger man that he couldn't quite shake the feeling of having stolen.

Medic strapped himself into the Medigun's charge pack and fixed the curved, serrated bonesaw to his hip. His needle gun was fully loaded, but the poisonous concoction within the syringes had long since dried up. The intimidation of the weapon itself would have to be enough.

Archimedes cooed at him as he brushed a gloved forefinger over the soft feathers atop her head. He would have to leave her cage door open, with plenty of food and water and newspaper available until he returned. She would be alright until then. She always was.

 

* * *

 

“Everybody clear on the plan?” the Heavy asked, running one last check on the minigun between his knees. It was not as large as Sasha, nor as well maintained, but Medic knew from experience that made it no less formidable. In the cramped back of the van, the men shared looks with one another.

Medic sat to the Heavy's immediate right; his customary seat in days long past, though he got the distinct impression the balance of power had shifted since then. The Soldier sat to the Heavy's left, his rocket launcher laid calmly across his lap, and the Spy sat directly across from Medic, staring at him all the while. The knife at his belt lacked the subtlety and grace of René's balisong, but the blade itself was longer. And more vicious. Much like the man who wielded it. A single black eye was all that was visible behind the Spy's mask and eyepiece, and it was filled with hate. Medic did not look at it. He was too focused on the number of grenades in his current vicinity.

“In and out,” the Heavy continued, not waiting for a response. “No witnesses, no complications, no survivors. And we're burning the place after, so if you're in the mood for looting do it fast. We don't get paid til we hand over the goods.”

Medic did not ask what “the goods” were, no matter how badly he wanted to. He had no idea where they were going or what they were after. The debriefing had apparently taken place sometime between his arrival downstairs and the execution of the remaining hotel staff, when all the others of his team had taken the time to gear up. There was a van waiting just outside the kitchens, doors open, and all he had to do was allow himself to be pushed inside. There were no windows in the armour plating of the vehicle. He didn't even know who was driving.

The van went over a rough bump, jostling them all against each other. The Scout's bony elbow dug into Medic's side as he slammed into the Heavy's immense bicep.

“We're close,” the Soldier grunted from beneath his beard, and the Heavy nodded. Everyone tightened their grips on their weapons.

“In and out, boys,” the big man said, sitting forward in his seat. “And leave the talking to me, alright?”

A dark, cruel chuckle went around the van, and Medic picked it up nervously.

_Don't let it be René,_ he thought desperately, as the van slowed its speed as they approached their destination. _Please, if there is a God in Heaven, do not make me fight him._

The van rolled to a slow stop. The Heavy turned toward the doors, easing his shotgun out of its holster. He laid it across his knee, the end of the barrel at eye level to anyone who might open the doors. Outside, Medic could hear voices, and the muffled crunch of heavy boots on gravel. He leaned around the Heavy's bulk, waiting to see which unlucky soul would be there to greet them.

There was a laugh from just outside, and the scrape of keys, and then the back doors of the van were being pulled open wide. Squinting against the sun, Medic saw the white helmet of a private security officer, and watched the smile slide from the young man's face as he beheld the nine heavily armed and armored men staring back at him.

The Heavy grinned.

“Morning, officer,” he said cheerfully. The officer stared, dumbfounded, for a moment longer. Then he reached for the radio on his shoulder. The blast of the shotgun liquifying his face was deafening in the confined space. Medic blinked reflexively as blood and brain spattered his face.

“ _Move!”_ the Heavy ordered, kicking the body out of the way as they all piled out of the back of the van, hitting the ground hard and storming toward the gates of the facility.

Medic didn't recognize anything about the place. He'd expected to see somewhere familiar, one of the old bases or a factory of some sort. But he saw only red rocks and sand and barbed wire, and a gate set into the stone. It was the gate they were charging. The alarms didn't start until the blast doors were blown open by a silent and efficient Demoman.

A small army of private security rushed to meet them, and Medic's team mowed them down with ease. They didn't even look like Mann Co. personnel. He kept his healing beam trained on the Heavy, shifting it only when the Engineer took a bad hit to the stomach and when the Scout got in too close and allowed himself to be grabbed.

The blood was roaring in his ears and pooling at his boots, and Medic felt alive in a way that he had not for decades.

A high laugh bubbled up in his throat as he was rushed by a determined soldier in full body armor, assault rifle gripped tight in practiced hands. Medic's hand was on his bone saw before the man could close with him, and when he did the surgical steel teeth scraped off the padding on his shoulder and lodged in the soft, unguarded flesh of his neck. Medic pushed, and then pulled, and nearly decapitated the man in one fell swoop. Arterial spray, thick, red hearts-blood gushed forth onto his gloves and the sleeves of his coat, onto his face and in his hair. His own heart hammered in his chest as the man died – really, truly _died_ – in a heap at his feet. Then he returned his attention to the roaring mountain of a man in front of him, and the rest faded to a raw, red blur.

He'd forgotten what it meant to kill.

He'd forgotten the rush of power that came with taking a life. A life that could never be given back or restored through magic or technology.

The life was gone.

It was _his_ now.

He had also forgotten just how good he was at this job.

Thirty men rushed to meet their nine, and thirty bodies lay in front of them now. Forward they pressed, down the halls and deeper into the facility. Medic saw men and women in white lab coats scattering and rushing to get away. He heard their pleas and their screams as they fell, and he forgot the last thirty years of his life.

A grey-haired scientist with broken glasses and blood pouring from his broken nose snatched a gun off the body of a dead guard and warned them not to come any closer. Medic didn't even hear what the Heavy said before he swatted the man aside with a single, brutal slap. The man fell hard against the wall, dropped his gun, and did not get up. The Soldier put a round of buckshot in his chest, just in case.

By the time the place had quieted down and Medic began to return to himself, there was enough blood spattering the walls to suit the set of a horror film.

“Start with the cleanup,” the Heavy grunted, letting his minigun slow to silence once again. “Put these rats out of their misery. If you find any still in talking shape, you bring them to me. The sooner we're out of here, the less likely we'll have to face reinforcements.”

The rest of the team nodded and broke off. They branched out in pairs, heading back through the path of carnage to search for survivors or valuables. Medic felt his heart rate dropping. He felt the blood cooling and crusting on his face, and in his hair.

He felt the rush begin to leave him, and his shoulders slumped.

“What are we looking for?” he asked as steadily as he could. He kept a firm grip on his Medigun, lest his hands begin to shake. The Heavy barely spared him a glance.

“Computers.”

Medic looked around, taking proper note of his surroundings and of the facility they had just destroyed. It was a laboratory, that much was evident. Small, but well staffed and well supplied. There was equipment here that even he had not seen before, and all around were the ruins of a very tidy and productive workspace. On one of the desk was the remains of a monitor, with three bullet holes shot clean through it.

“There is a computer,” he pointed out, and got a dismissive snort in response.

“Not big enough,” the Heavy said, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. His broad chest was covered in even more blood than Medic's, matting and congealing in the thick hair exposed by his lack of armor. “Not fancy enough, either. I doubt they'd leave it on a desk, right out in the open. They're not that fucking stupid. I'd wager what we're after is in one of the offices, maybe a locked cell. A vault, if we're shit out of luck. How are you holding up, Medic?”

The question caught Medic off guard. His mouth worked soundlessly as the Heavy turned to face him, brows raised expectantly.

“ _Wunderbar,”_ he said, and his smile was not entirely forced. “This has been a very... exhilarating return to action. I had- I'd forgotten-”

“How good it feels,” the Heavy finished for him, taking a step forward. Medic grit his teeth to stop himself from swallowing. There was a smirk somewhere around the Heavy's thin lips, but he didn't let his gaze linger to find it. The thick, metallic scent of blood was making his head swim. The Heavy took another step toward him.

“Got one!” someone called from the hall, and the Heavy's head snapped toward the sound. Medic followed him quickly as he set off, broken glass crunching beneath their boots as they walked.

The Spy and Scout were in one of the smaller labs, a little office of sorts, in the process of hauling a terrified young woman out from beneath the desk. She was deathly pale, shaking as she tried to wrench herself out of their grip. She let out a weak scream as the Heavy stepped into the room, standing half a head above the tallest of the men and twice as wide.

“Let her go,” he said lazily, and the men holding her dropped her abruptly. She crumpled in a shivering heap, trying to scrambled backwards as the Heavy strode forward and stopped in front of her. Medic hung back in the doorway, watching dispassionately as the big man knelt down to eye level.

“What's your name, sweetheart?” he asked calmly, keeping a good foot of space between her and himself. She stared at him with wide, fearful eyes. “Come on, don't make this any harder than it has to be. Tell me your name.”

Her voice was too quiet for Medic to hear what she said, but the Heavy heard her just fine. He nodded reassuringly.

“Nice to meet you, Marianne. Sorry about the mess me and my boys made earlier, we'll try to be quieter on our way out.” He shifted on his haunches. “We'll be out of your hair in no time, soon as we get what we came for. You do _know_ what we're here for, don't you, sweetheart?”

The woman's eyes darted around the room, searching for any exit or escape, any weapon, any friendly face. Her eyes met Medic's, and he forced himself to hold her gaze. To not look away, simply because it would be easier to forget her face that way.

This was the ugly work. This was not battle or survival, or even scientific advancement. This was collateral. This was the hardest part to watch and remember.

Hard, because it didn't use to be hard.

This was another thing he had been good at, once. Perhaps he still was. But he was grateful he was not being forced to find out how much of that man was left inside him, or how close it still lay beneath the surface. Medic didn't want to know how much he was still capable of, after all these years.

She must not have found what she was looking for in his cold gaze. Her eyes darted over his shoulder where he could hear the footsteps of the others coming up behind him.

“I-” she started, her voice high and strained. “I'm just- just a temp, I don't-”

The Heavy's hand lashed out faster than Medic could catch, cracking viciously across the side of her face. She crumpled to her side, sheets of blonde hair falling out of their neat bun and into her eyes.

“I asked you a question, Marianne,” the Heavy said, just as calmly as before. “Do you know what I'm here for or don't you?”

The woman let out a cracked, broken sob, but nodded all the same. The Heavy hummed.

“Good. That's good, see, we're making progress. Saves me having to explain and waste both our time. So you know what it is. Would you be kind enough to tell me where I might find it?”

Medic watched stoically as the woman raised herself back onto her elbow for support, pushing the hair out of her face with a badly trembling hand. Already her cheek was starting to bruise. He did not allow himself to feel for her.

“In- in- in the back office,” she stammered. “You n-need a key to- please, I don't h-have it, I'm j-”

“Just a temp, I got it, sweetie,” the Heavy said, nodding. “So you don't have the key. Who does?”

“D-Doctor Bhatia was the one w-who headed the project, sh-she'd have the key card-”

“You hear that?” the Heavy said, turning to address the Soldier and others who had gathered out in the hall. “Bhatia, female. Find the body, check the pockets, report.”

Medic stayed where he was while the others went off to search. The woman on the floor let out a low wail at the mention of a body. The Heavy turned his attention back to her.

“Anything we should expect in that room?” he asked. “Any traps or passwords or anything like that I need to watch out for?”

She shook her head weakly.

“No, n-no, I- I don't know, I'm just a- please, I don't know any- anything...”

She was hiccuping almost too badly to speak now. There was blood in the corner of her mouth, and she flinched when the Scout shifted beside her. The Heavy sighed again and got slowly to his feet.

“Thank you, Marianne. You've been very helpful.”

Medic must have missed the signal he gave. Without a sound, the Spy knelt down and grabbed a fistful of blonde hair. She didn't have time to scream before another hand grabbed her jaw and her head was twisted quickly to the side. There was a sharp, sick little crack, followed by a thud as her leg jerked out, once, and collided with the side of her desk. She didn't move again. The Spy lowered her carefully to the floor and straightened up. He found Medic's gaze and held it until their line of sight was broken by the Heavy turning around and stepping toward the door. Medic moved hastily out of the way to let him pass. The Spy and Scout followed quickly behind, leaving him alone in the room with the dead woman. He stopped himself from looking back at her.

The Engineer met the Heavy in the hall and presented him with a thin piece of plastic, smeared with a bloody thumbprint. They headed together toward rooms at the back of the lab until they found what they were looking for.

The card was rejected on the first swipe, but accepted on the second, after the blood had been wiped off. The thick lead door slid soundlessly inward, and the Heavy stepped inside.

He was right. The other computer was not nearly large enough to compare to this monstrosity.

Medic remained in the hall with the others, watching as the man approached the front of the massive device and pulled something from his pocket, small enough to be concealed entirely by his hand. His body blocked whatever it was he did to the computer. The lights of the room flashed yellow, and then red, but no audible alarm sounded. After several minutes, they went dark entirely. The Heavy moved back from the console, and returned the item to his pocket. He turned back to his waiting team and smiled.

“Well, boys,” he said, pulling the door closed behind him with a gentle click. “Let's go home.”

 


	13. House of Wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow so this is really late

The roar of the machines was relentless.

That was the first thing Medic noticed, as soon as they arrived at the new base. No matter where they were on the premises, no matter how many walls were between them and the massive, three-storey warehouse, the constant hum of huge, snorting mechanisms could always be heard – and felt, through the faint vibrations in the floor.

It was a factory. Medic didn't know what was being manufactured there, but it was a large scale, full blown production line. Trucks and small planes were constantly zipping in and out of the lot, being loaded and unloaded before leaving again, quick as they came. Medic watched them come and go whenever he was close to a window, wondering just how many people were involved in this operation. But the vehicles entered the warehouse to do their business. He had yet to see a single working man handling any sort of product.

Odd, that he hadn't seen a single factory worker either.

In fact, aside from the eight men of his team and the crackly voice that had greeted them over the intercom at the gate, Medic hadn't seen or heard from a single person in the entire complex. There weren't even guards that he could see, though there were watchtowers and razor wire and KEEP OUT signs plastered all around the perimeter. And there were cameras _everywhere._ In the hallways, in the dining area and kitchens, the large “recreation” area with its variety of exercise equipment and fully stocked liquor cabinet. Even in the shared locker room bathrooms and showers. It reminded Erik of prison. Only no one was stopping them from leaving, and prisoners were not typically allowed to carry around military grade weaponry.

He was positive his room was bugged. It was a large enough space, surprisingly tasteful accommodations and a large comfortable bed. Thankfully there was a small en suite bathroom with enough room for a shower. Archimedes was waiting for him when he arrived, along with all the clothes and supplies he'd left back the motel. His things had been gone through again. But whoever did it went to such cares to make everything look undisturbed that he got the distinct impression it wasn't an intimidation tactic this time.

He didn't bother rooting out the cameras and listening devices he knew must be hidden in his quarters. Finding them and demanding their removal would only lead to trouble, he was certain of that. Modesty was not an issue. But the feeling of being watched every single hour of the day left a bad taste in his mouth.

Medic did not like this place. It felt wrong.

He had little time to himself to dwell on such things, however. Not when there was work to be done. And not where any of the men he'd be working with were likely to catch him looking too deep in thought. It would be unwise to go poking around this place, he realized.

But wisdom had never been one of his strong suits.

The Heavy had come down this hallway. Medic tailed him carefully, at a distance, and always made sure to keep his actions natural and purposeful in case anyone was watching through the many cameras. Some of them oscillated, which he found very annoying and also very useful. They made seeming casual more difficult, but they had allowed allowed him to get into his current position, half pressed against the steel wall just outside the camera's field of view. He was certain the Heavy was close. And if he could just find him without being detected or giving himself away-

“ _...goddamn machine...”_

Now _that_ was familiar.

Medic edged his way along the wall, keeping an eye on the little camera at the end of the hallway. There was a niche behind one of the steel support beams jutting out of the wall, and if he could get to it and hide himself behind it, he just might be able to-

The camera twitched, and Medic lunged. He flattened himself behind the beam just as the little red light swiveled slowly in his direction. And then he stopped and listened to the voice growing steadily louder within.

“ _...see the fucking point... not paid to... science...”_

The walls and doors were thick in this facility. Medic could barely make out every other word, but it was definitely the Heavy's gravelly voice. Medic made the assumption he was talking to Grey Mann, though he could only hear one side of the conversation. The Heavy was not being paid to deal with science and machines, apparently. Good thing no one was asking him to. That's what _he_ had been brought in for.

Medic had still not received any specific orders. He had not been given a task or spoken to the mysterious Grey Mann at all, save their single conversation at the hotel. Whatever partnership had been promised him had yet to be discussed, but he was fairly certain he had been brought in to deal with the more cerebral business of the operation rather than just another hired gun. After the interest Mann expressed in his work, his purpose must be something along those lines.

Progress. Progress was what he had been promised. And so long as he was not the guinea pig for experimentation, he would be quite happy to deliver.

“ _...Medic...”_

The sound of his name made the doctor stiffen. He twisted his neck to press his ear against the wall, hoping it would amplify the voices beyond.

“ _...damn good plan in mind for... not my responsibility if...”_

“ _...need to worry,”_ said a new voice, which he could hear very faintly. _“...have what I asked for?”_

“ _Better tell me next time...”_

Medic couldn't hear the end of the sentence, but he could hear could the familiar, electronic whir of a teleporter being booted up. Something was sent through, one way or another, but Medic was willing to bet the Heavy had just transferred the strange little device he had brought with them to the laboratory and plugged into the massive computer. Medic still had no idea what it was. But it was out of his hands now, at any rate. Perhaps when he was braver and more comfortable in his role he would ask about it.

“ _...what you're after...”_ the Heavy was saying, as Medic peered around the corner to check the camera. This conversation was drawing to a close. He needed to leave, lest he be discovered. A quick glance and he saw the camera pointing away from him. He went for it.

Medic made it four steps after his lunge, walking as fast as he dared down the hall back to the common area, when he was grabbed from behind.

The force with which he was slammed into the wall left him stunned. The back of his head collided with steel paneling with a loud clang. Strong hands gripped the front of his vest and shirt, shaking him and slamming him against the wall again when he grabbed at thick wrists.

“Snooping already?” said a gravelly voice, but it did not belong to the Heavy. Medic opened his eyes, blinking rapidly at the bushy face of the Soldier in front of him.

“How dare you,” Medic spat, trying to regain his footing. “Unhand me, or I will-”

“You'll what?” said a voice to his right as the Demoman stepped into view. Without his helmet and glasses on, Medic could see what was left of his left of his rat-grey hair, little as there was, and the sneer on his face. “To all of us? You're not that good, doc.”

Medic felt the blade pressed to his throat before he saw the man holding it. The Spy stepped into his field of view, still masked, though he had gone without the eyepiece. Black eyes blazed with cold satisfaction at having him in such a predicament.

“Am I meant to be frightened?” Medic asked, sounding braver than he felt. These men hated him. He could see it in their eyes, and their hate was very justified. “Intimidated by three old men who must attack me in numbers to feel strong?”

The Demoman made a thick, disgusting noise in the back of his throat, and something wet hit Medic's cheek. He froze.

“Did that get your attention?” the Soldier asked. He shook him again. “Listen up, because I'm only going to say this once: we're on to you.”

Medic could feel the spittle sliding down his jaw, cooling in the air.

He could kill them all right now. If he was careful, and fast, they could not withstand him. But that would be a foolish move, tempting as it was, and he resisted the urge to break free and claw out the eyes of the man who had spat on him. Later. He would repay this later.

“Is that all?” he ground through his teeth, which earned him the knife's edge moving to press against his Adam's apple.

“I don't care what the Boss says,” Soldier said, his voice a low growl emanation from somewhere within his beard. “I don't care how useful your fancy little health gun is or how fucking smart you think you are. I don't trust you. And don't you think for a fucking second that you've gotten away with what you did to us.”

The Spy reached up with his free hand and pulled at the top of his mask. His face was long and thin, as was his nose, with surprisingly full lips. Medic had only seen this face a handful of times, and never with so many lines, wrinkles and sagging skin. The mask was pulled down past his chin, down his neck, and Medic's eyes fell immediately to the thing the man was trying to show him. The deep, jagged scar across his throat, starting and ending beneath his ears and cutting straight across his windpipe. It was a cruel wound, made without hesitation. Medic knew, because he had made it. He looked at the scar, and then up to the Spy's eyes. The man couldn't speak anymore. It was a miracle he had survived at all. But his eyes spoke enough.

Medic looked back to the Soldier, dropping his eyes reflexively to the man's chest where he knew another scar would would be waiting. A Y-cut, only halfway down, interrupted and unfinished.

Not his finest work, and not his finest moment. When he lifted his gaze he found the Soldier's beady eyes gleaming at him from beneath his bushy grey eyebrows.

“Is it revenge you want?” the doctor asked quietly, looking back and forth between the three of them. The Demoman had taken no injuries that day, but he had plenty of reasons to hate. “Are you going to kill me?”

“Can you even die, you fucking vampire?” the Demo snarled, but was silenced by the look the Spy shot him

“Maybe,” the Soldier said, after a moment. “Maybe someday. The Boss says you aren't to be harmed, but that can change. You'll slip up, doc. You always slip and fuck something up, don't you?”

Medic's nostril's flared, needled by the truth of the words, but he made no reply. The larger man shook him slightly.

“And when you do you, this time we'll be waiting. You've got no friends here. Not a damn one, and everyone I know would love to carve a piece off of you and leave the rest for the dogs. You're gonna slip. And this sneaking around, jumping around corners? Consider that your first misstep. You're getting a warning. Next time, you're getting a beating and I don't care how strong to think you are or how tough you've made yourself. When I hit you, you'll feel it.”

Medic stopped himself from swallowing.

The Soldier was not as large a man as the Heavy, but they were of a similar build and temperament. Where the Heavy was quick tempered, anger coming in red-hot flashes and fading as soon as he was able to strike something, the Soldier's anger was cold. It was slow and it simmered, and he carried it as long as he had to until it could be unleashed on its target. He'd seen it before. He'd certainly been on the receiving end. It was not an experience he wished to relive in any lifetime.

The sudden blow to Medic's stomach knocked the wind out of him. It had come not from the Soldier, but from the Demoman's gnarled fist, jarring him and making the blade bite deeper into his throat. He gasped as he felt in break the skin and reeled back, hitting his head against the wall once more.

Not that he would ever tell these men, but the question of whether or not he was capable of dying was very much up in the air. It was not something he was willing to test.

“Watch yourself,” the Soldier said, giving him another hard shove into the wall before letting him go. “We'll be watching you, too.”

The Demoman sneered at him as he passed and the knife dropped from his neck. Medic watched the Spy pull his mask back over his thin face. The Soldier turned away without sparring him a second glance.

He listened to their footsteps fading down the hall. Listened to their mumbling and laughter, and the way someone was patted on the back. He waited until they were out of earshot to let out the breath he was holding and let himself slump back against the wall.

Helen wanted him to earn the trust of these men. She wanted him to rejoin their ranks and become a part of the group once more.

If this was the attitude he would be contending with, he certainly had has work cut out for him.

Medic wiped the drying spit off of his cheek with the sleeve of his shirt, trying not to think too much about it as he plotted the gruesome future death of the Demoman, and pushed himself away from the wall. He straightened his shirt and vest and moved around the corner in the direction his teammates had gone down-

-only to collide solidly with a hard, warm wall of flesh.

“Might need those glasses after all,” rumbled a voice from above his head, “if you can't even see what's right in front of your damn face.”

Medic took a hasty step back, out of the Heavy's personal space.

“ _Entschuldigung,_ I thought- I did not hear you approach.”

“You weren't supposed to.”

Medic looked up sharply, catching the man's gaze.

“You heard all of that, then,” he said curtly. The Heavy nodded.

“Most of it. Enough to know that we're going to have to have a nice little team building meeting in the near future.”

He glanced behind him, checking down the hall, then reached out and laid a hand on Medic's shoulder.

“Come on, before you get yourself in anymore trouble. I'll walk you back to your quarters, doctor.”

The tightening of his fingers made plain that this was not a suggestion. Medic narrowed his eyes, disliking the implications of the sentence, but he allowed himself to be forcefully guided in the opposite direction from which he had come.

He found every camera as they went. Marked it and noted in his mind for future reference, wondering what the men watching behind the faceless screens must think of this little stroll of theirs. The Heavy stayed close, half following and half leading. Their shoulders would brush if Medic slowed too much, and he didn't dare draw too far ahead lest that vice-like grip close on his arm once more.

The Heavy didn't speak as they walked. He didn't say a word until they arrived outside the door to Medic's quarters, which he seemed amused to find unlocked.

“You don't worry about someone getting in?” he asked, trying the handle himself. Medic shrugged.

“I fear if they are truly determined, a locked door will not stop them. At least this way they don't get the satisfaction of outsmarting me.”

The Heavy snorted and pushed the door inward. For a moment Medic worried he meant to go inside, for whatever purpose, but he stayed put and made no motions to enter. Medic nodded politely and made to step inside.

He was blocked by a thick, muscled arm stretching across the doorway.

He stood there for a moment, looking at the arm. Pointedly _not_ looked at the man it was attached to. The man towering over him, filling the space around him effortlessly and completely with the simple size of him. Watching him.

“I won't stop them,” the Heavy said, his voice quiet enough that it was almost soft. When Medic did not react, he shifted forward and leaned over him, blocking the easiest paths of escape with his arm and his chest. Medic could smell him. The sweat and oil, cheap aftershave, the last lingering traces of the bar soap that had been stocked in bulk in every Company shower he'd ever been in. The scent was too familiar. Too intimate, after too many years. He kept his eyes forward and didn't pull away, even as he felt the other man's breath on his neck.

“The boys, I mean, if they get their hands on you. I won't stop them. I don't trust you either,” the big man told him in a low rasp. “Not a goddamn bit, Medic. Not after what you did to us. To _me._ You don't get to just walk away from that without consequences, and I swear to fucking god you'll get what's coming to you, you hear? Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, or next week, maybe not for years and years. But one day, someone's gonna tear you down to something you can't recover from, and if you're very, _very_ unlucky, that someone will be me.”

Medic didn't flinch as a broad hand was placed high on his back, right at the base of his neck. He didn't move at all. He didn't even know if he was breathing.

“Do you really hate me so much?” he heard himself ask in a whisper. He felt the rumble of the other man's laughter as much as he heard it. The rough pad of a callused thumb swiped over the back of his neck where his hairline met his collar and the goosebumps were immediate.

“No, doctor, I don't hate you. But I know you. I know how you think, and what you do, and what you want. I know you're lying about why you're here. I know you're hiding something, even if the Boss man doesn't wanna hear it. That's his problem. But I'm not getting fooled by you again.”

He leaned even closer and let his hand slide down, resting only about mid-back, but the gesture of it made Medic clench his jaw, fighting the involuntary urge to shiver or react in any way.

“You can play your little games,” the Heavy said. “You can toy around with whatever Mann gives you, sing along with his pretty little songs about _partnership_ and _progress._ But I'll know better, eh? And I'll be watching you.”

The Heavy loomed closer still, and for one brief instant Medic was afraid. Of what he wasn't sure, but the fear gripped him all the same. And then it was over. The big man straightened up and stepped back, hands falling to his side, and he was walking away down the hall without so much as a backward glance. The footfalls of his heavy boots echoed off the metal walls, fading rhythmically round the corner and out of earshot.

Medic remained frozen in the doorway until he was completely gone.

When he finally willed himself to move inside, his shaking hands were already reaching up to loosen his tie. Tie, vest, shirt, undershirt, belt, boots, socks, trousers, briefs. He felt messily around his own face for his glasses even as he marched into the little bathroom before remembering they were no longer there. He ignored the trail of clothes behind him. He would worry about the mess later. Later, later, when it mattered. Later, when he could think.

The cold water hit his skin like a shot, making him flinch so hard he nearly fell over. But he didn't reach for the faucets. He grabbed soap and a washrag, and he began to scrub.

He didn't stop until he felt raw and finally, finally clean again.

 


	14. The Only Thing

It took three days of driving to find peace.

They left the Basin behind in a column of smoke an ash, driving as hard as Sniper's van could be pushed until the explosion was out of sight.

Tuefort was gone. They could see it on the horizon, just as much of a smoldering wreckage as the base they had just left behind. The entire town was burning quietly in the midday sun. They didn't get close enough to scout for survivors. Seeing the wreckage from afar was enough to tell them there wouldn't be any.

By the time they reached Dustbowl, Sniper had gone deathly pale.

The back of his shirt was drenched with blood, half unbuttoned and inside out, Spy realized. The Australian must have been sleeping when the attack began. He likely didn't hear the bot approaching, or – and the thought gnawed at Spy as he watched Sniper's chest rise and fall shallowly out of the corner of his eye – perhaps he did hear the approach and mistook it for a friend. Perhaps the horrible robot with his face, his silhouette, was capable of pulling his tricks as well. It could cloak, Spy knew that much. God help them if the machines were capable of disguising themselves as flesh and blood.

Dustbowl's ashes were cold. They pulled over as the sun began to sink from the sky, and Sniper slumped and tipped as he opened the driver's side door. He would have fallen out to the ground if Spy had not been there fast enough to catch him.

“Rest in the back,” he told the exhausted man, leading him toward to the back door to the camper. “I will drive, _mon ami.”_

“She's- she's got a tricky clutch,” Sniper murmured. His feet dragged as he tried to walk, allowing himself to be lead in a way he never would if he were well. His fingers curled in the fabric of Spy's jacket. “Y'gotta... got to pump it twice...”

“I can manage,” Spy assured him, knocking softly on the door. It was the Demoman who answered, looking warily out at them.

“Why are we stopped?” Miss Pauling's voice asked from within, and in the darkness Spy could just see her squashed around the little dining table with Heavy and Soldier. Scout was sitting up in the bed, pillows and folded blankets propped behind him to keep him upright. He looked disoriented and there was a mixing bowl in his lap, but his eyes were open. Pyro sat in the narrow aisle on the floor with a pack of cards scattered in front of them.

“Sniper is hurt.”

Room was quickly arranged for him. Scout blinked as he was told to scoot over and complied sluggishly, mumbling something unintelligible as Sniper was helped into the back of the camper and laid face down beside him. Miss Pauling stepped over Pyro to get to the sink. She ran a dishrag under the water and stepped over Pyro again, passing the rag to Soldier. The American was already sitting on the edge of the bed beside Sniper, pulling his bloody shirt off more with more gentleness than Spy would have ever thought him capable of. He pressed the rag to Sniper's wound and Sniper let out a weak hiss.

“He is hurt the whole time?” Heavy rumbled from his seat at the table. Spy nodded.

“He didn't listen when I suggested stopping earlier.

Heavy grunted.

“Stupid.”

His tone was rough, but Spy could see the way his brows were furrowed in concern as he watched Soldier clean Sniper's wound. The way the bushman's fingers dug weakly into the sheets beneath him. He had lost a great amount of blood.

“We should stop here,” Demo said, closest to the doorway where Spy was standing outside. “Rest for the night. See that everyone's taken care of and well enough for travel.”

“I cannot stitch a wound while the vehicle is in motion,” Soldier said, and already there was a miniature sewing kit in his rough hands, supposedly pulled from a pocket of his uniform. Beside him, Scout snorted.

“Where'd you learn to sew?” the boy slurred. He was slumped in the very corner of the mattress, knees half drawn up to his chest with the bowl between them. An impromptu puke bucket, Spy realized. Soldier bit the end of the thread cleanly with his teeth and thread the needle with practiced ease.

“My mother taught me.”

Scout made a face, his expression muddled in his concussed state, but said no more.

“Should not stop here,” Heavy said. Everyone looked to him. He was staring out the narrow window, between the moth eaten floral drapes and out at the blackened skeleton of what used to be one of their homes, just visible on the darkening horizon. “Is not safe. Robots came this way, but does not mean they are gone. We should keep moving.”

“Sniper can't drive like this,” Miss Pauling said. She looked at Spy. “He shouldn't have been driving for the past several hours.”

“I will drive,” Spy told her.

“It's nearly dark,” Demo said with a frown. “Ye need to rest. We _all_ need to rest.”

“We need to get to shelter,” Spy insisted. “We cannot remain here out in the open, this close to the destruction. We must find somewhere safe.”

“And how'd ye know there _is_ anywhere safe?”

“If we keep driving-”

“Driving where? That way?” He jabbed a finger in the direction of the ruined base, the same direction they'd been heading all day. “If ye haven't noticed, everything we'd passed comin' from that direction has been on bloody fire! Those metal bastards came from that way, and they're burnin' everythin' they come across. We may not have anythin' worth driving _toward.”_

Spy pressed his lips tightly together, considering the truth of the Scotsman's words. He was right; everything they'd passed had been in ruins, signs of attack scorched into the earth itself in the shape of blast craters. They'd seen nothing to indicate that they were heading toward safety. They had no idea if anything was waiting for them on the other side of the desert.

“Where do you suggest we go?” he asked the Demoman, who hesitated.

“Back to the house?” he said, and looked back at Miss Pauling. She shook her head.

“We can't go back there. We stayed too long the first time.”

“What about a Mann Co. facility?”

“That's no guarantee of safety, Spy. Without The Administrator or Saxton Hale, a lot of the offices have been put on standby.”

“Then there is _nowhere?”_ Spy said, more harshly than he would if he was not so exhausted, and so frightened. He'd been able to keep the fear at bay so long as they were driving, but he was deeply shaken up. From the looks of things, they all were. Miss Pauling blinked and forgave his tone.

“I think Demo is right,” she said loud enough for everyone to hear. “We're all tired. We need rest, and we need to figure out what we're going to do from here. I suggest we get off the main road and find somewhere to sleep for tonight. We can take turns keeping watch.”

She looked around as though gathering opinions, but her decision wasn't a question. Heavy frowned but kept silent. Demo slumped in relief.

“There'ss'not enough beds,” Scout slurred from his corner. “And I ain't sharin' with any of you- you people-”

He trailed off, eyes unfocusing until Sniper reached up and gave him an ungentle shove.

“Pipe down, you mongrel,” the Australian mumbled into the mattress, where he was still face down after Soldier had sutured and bandaged his stab wound. “M'not moving. My bed. My van.”

“Will think of something,” Heavy said. “Heavy will take first watch, give leetle men time to sleep and heal.”

“Dude, you're missing an _ear.”_

Heavy shifted in his seat.

“What?”

Pyro was the only one to laugh.

Demo climbed into the cab of the truck with Spy as they set off again, after making sure everyone was secure in the back. The Scotsman's expression was weary, but he avoided Spy's eye in favour of looking down at his own hands. It had been a long enough day. There was nothing else to be said.

The back of Sniper's seat was tacky with dried blood. Spy hunched forward against the wheel to avoid rubbed against the mess. He popped the clutch as Sniper had instructed, checked his mirrors, and took a deep breath as he drove the van full of his only friends in the world off of the main road and into the desert.

 

* * *

 

On the second day, the engine overheated.

Sniper was roused from his face-down stupor next to Scout and staggered groggily to his feet. He'd taken painkillers with his breakfast – from a little yellow bottle tucked under his mattress that looked suspiciously like it came from Erik's old stores – and wasn't exactly in fine form. He grumbled more than usual. It took him nearly a full minute to locate the latch to pop the hood. Spy watched him anxiously, listening to Heavy and Demo's offers to help.

Pyro was the one to point out that they didn't have any food.

They and Miss Pauling combed every inch of the camper – which made Sniper cover his face with his hands when they told him – and all they could manage to scrounge up was an energy bar, a sandwich bag full of questionable jerky, a half-empty box of stale powdered donuts with most of the powder licked off, and another bottle of painkillers. To drink, they had only a gallon jug of water, most of which Sniper was using to cool the engine, a couple of warm beers, a jar of what everyone was reasonably sure was old piss, and a flask of something so strong it made Demo gag.

“How can you live like this?” Spy demanded, throwing his hands in the air as he presented Sniper the fruits of their search. The Australian was slumped over the innards of his precious vehicle, doing something with a thin plastic tube.

“I _don't_ live like this,” he grumbled. “I just got the van back, remember? Haven't got her all stocked up yet.”

“I suppose we're lucky to have anything at all?” Spy snapped, but Sniper only shrugged in response then groaned loudly at the pain that must have shot through his shoulder. Spy walked away seething.

He had left his cigarettes behind. He could feel the familiar itch of what Scout affectionately called a “nic fit.” Everything and everyone was setting his teeth on edge, and the knowledge of the bottle of painkillers being so close and accessible was gnawing at the back of his mind, scrabbling at the ugly old habit that the lack of cigarettes was only accentuating. He couldn't stop moving his hands. Wringing them together, drumming his fingers, rubbing the back of his neck or crossing them only to recross them moments later. He felt restless. He wanted to fight. And Sniper clearly wasn't going to indulge him.

So he stomped a few feet away and kicked a rock, and glared out at all the dirt and sand they still had to cross before they would reach safety.

If they were lucky.

It was past midday, with the sun shining bright and hot overhead when they finally got the van going again. Sniper took his place behind the wheel again, with supervision from Miss Pauling in the passenger seat, and Spy crammed himself into the back of the camper with everyone else. Scout was allowed to sit at the table now. He'd taken some of Sniper's painkillers as well and his speech had stopped slurring so much, but Heavy was keeping a very close eye on him. The bed was now used as just another seat, meaning Pyro could finally stop sitting on the floor. Spy flopped down beside them and tried to run his fingers through his hair. When the mask prevented that, he ripped it off and threw it irritably down the narrow aisle and glared at it as it landed in a weak little heap. Nobody said a word about his outburst.

As the van pulled back into action, Pyro pulled out their pack of playing cards again and went back to singeing the corners.

 

* * *

 

This was not the base that Spy would have chosen, had they any other choice. Not with its wooden walls and ruined floors, leaky roofs unable to withstand the constant downpour. The Sawmill was a derelict when they first arrived, and it had only fallen into further disrepair in the years since any of them had seen it last.

Much of the floor had rotted and sunken in. The boards creaked and groaned when stepped on, and cracked alarmingly under Heavy's halting weight. The place was overgrown to the point that the green had overtaken entire walls, taking hold and climbing skyward toward what little sunlight this base received. The ground outside was all slick mud and thick moss. Towering pines loomed on all sides, encroaching closer than they had before. It gave the place an insulated feeling. Isolated and silent, eerily peaceful in its stillness. It wasn't a place Spy thought he'd ever be likely to return to.

But it wasn't burned. It wasn't a smoking crater in the forest, and there were no signs that anyone had even been there since their last departure. Most impressively, the old generators still worked. They were rusted through in places, but hummed to life as soon as Miss Pauling switched them on. The lights worked. The plumbing worked, as did the appliances. Respawn was functional, which earned a collective sigh of relief from everyone present.

Then there were the giant, whirling saw blades that gave the location its name.

It had obviously been a mill at one point, evidenced by the half-processed logs and planks of various sizes piled all around the property, and the defaced logos of a defunct logging company. Mann Co. was in the habit of buying or repurposing companies and locations to fund their little war. Sawmill was out of the way, and often served as a reprieve from the hot desert sun in the warmest months of the year. Now, it seemed, it was to be their new and indefinite base of operations. It was unlikely they'd be able to stay here very long. But for now, it was the perfect place to stop and rest.

The first priority was treating the wounded. An old Kritzkrieg was found in the med bay's storage, along with some lesser health packs, and that was enough to get everyone up and stable again.

Heavy's ear would keep the scar and likely never fully regain its hearing. Sniper would bear a scar as well. They'd gone too long without proper healing, and even the strange technology that saved even the most fatal of injuries could only do so much once the body's natural healing had kicked in.

Scout popped a couple of the little blue capsules from the health pack and took a nap and woke up fine, if a bit hungry. Sniper was given fluids from the old storage, which Miss Pauling deemed “good enough” to use. Pyro's arm and Demo's leg were stiff but whole after a few minutes each under the Kritz's healing beam. Everyone would live.

They found weapons as well.

Heavy had brought Sasha with him in the escape, and some of the others had managed to grab some of their own gear when climbing into the van. Spy had all of his equipment and Demo had both his sword and his sticky-bomb launcher, but Scout was unarmed and Soldier had only been able to carry him and his shovel. Pyro had their flare gun Miss Pauling had her gun. Sniper's kukri was under his bed and his gun was propped in the tiny bathroom of the camper, but he had no bullets. Finding the stash of gear in Sawmill's Resupply Room was a godsend. It wasn't necessarily their best or favourite items, but it would at least give them a fighting chance should it even come to fighting. And with the trees all around, there was no way to be caught off guard by a robot horde moving through the forest.

But thinking of the robots brought a shudder down Spy's spine. The memories and the fear were still far too fresh in his mind. Every time he heard a vaguely metallic noise, such as the legs of a chair scraping against the floor or a rusty hinge being opened he was put on red alert.

Not that anyone else was any better. Everyone was clearly on edge. Miss Pauling occupied herself by trying to bring the comm systems back online and Sniper vanished into the brush under the premise of hunting for food. Demo tasked Soldier and Pyro with cleaning up the bedrooms and patching up the worst of the leaks while he himself made sure they'd have an ample supply of drinking water and ammunition. The shed that had formerly served as Engineer's workshop was quickly claimed by the Scotsman.

Spy and Scout ran checks of the perimeter and tried to find places to fortify or shore up. They started at the same point out back and went opposite directions, planning to meet at the same point out front once they'd completed their checks.

It was the first time Spy had been alone in weeks.

The silence of the rainy forest was oddly comforting. Moss and the occasional soft, rotted twig squished under his feet as he walked the length of the formerly electric fence, inspecting it for rusted links or broken connections. That was what he was _supposed_ to be doing. His mind, however, wandered.

Erik had not yet called. Not since that first night before the flight to Australia, back in the little big old house Miss Pauling had been raised in. René kept waiting, kept his phone on him at all times just in case. He was afraid to fall asleep in case he missed the subtle vibrations. He checked the little screen whenever he could steal a moment to himself, squinting at it and trying to find any sign of a missed call or a message.

Even now he held it open in the shade of the trees, not even looking at the fence, willing the little thing to buzz to life and light up in his hand. It didn't. It didn't do anything at all. After a few moments the screen started to go dark and René flipped it closed with a snap.

Erik said he would call whenever he could. So either he couldn't, or he'd been lying, and René couldn't decide which excuse would upset him more. He knew the doctor could be forgetful or singularly focused on his work, but René would like to think he ranked higher on Erik's priorities than some lab experiment. He didn't want Erik to be hurt or compromised, or to risk his own safety for a simple conversation.

But he missed the sound of his voice. Missed it terribly, and all the more acutely in these moments of silence.

René was exhausted.

What he wanted more than anything was for a pair of strong arms to wrap around him and pull him against a broad, strong chest. He wanted another man's stubble to scrape against his neck as sweet, soft, calming words were whispered into his skin, promises of love and safety and home. He wanted to be back in the little house by the lake with Chat and all of the horrible birds and Erik, especially Erik, relaxing in ignorance of robot armies and land wars and crumbling corporate dynasties. It wasn't supposed to be their problem anymore. They were never supposed to be here again.

“You said you would come back to me,” René said out loud, to the little chunk of plastic in his hand. The plastic didn't reply.

He sighed, and headed back toward the base.

 


	15. Lose Your Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. it's been a while since i've updated. since i've really been able to focus on writing at all, actually, and i apologize for that. my own mental health wasn't in a place that allowed me to get anything done, which just made everything worse tbh
> 
> i think i'm past the point of being able to promise quick updates, but i really haven't abandoned this story. not after all the trouble it took me to plan it out and get here in the first place.
> 
> i'll keep at it, if people are still interested. again, sorry for the long delay. you guys deserve better than having to wait for so long :v

These men no longer feared him.

That was the conclusion Medic came to late one night, after another uneventful day of waiting for orders. Another day of being roughly bumped in passing. Of being tripped or sneered at as he walked past. The blatant disrespect was staggering, and worrisome.

Thirty years ago, none of them would have dared to so much as look at him the wrong way. Hallways would clear as he strode down them, conversations would cease as he approached, room was always made for him at the dinner or meeting table. They paid deference where deference was due. It was only proper, when he'd had the authority to literally hold their lives in his hand. To cross the Medic was to invite agony.

While true that the Heavy had been on a tighter leash in those days, serving as an enforcer and a tool of intimidation, it was not only the brute's might that kept the others in check. It was the Medic they feared. And it would be the Medic they feared again.

He needed to get that power back.

The years had made him soft. In his heart Erik knew that to be true, no matter how badly the thought rankled. He had become lenient. Complacent. Friendly, even, with the men he fought beside. How else would he come to miss them as he did? How else could he have come to care so deeply for one of them? He'd let his guard down around them in a way he never would in the past, and now he was feeling the consequences of that. He'd lost his edge.

These men, all of them old and worldly now, saw no reason to respect the “young” doctor who'd gone soft around the edges. They saw nothing left in him of the monster they'd once feared. And that would have to change.

His opportunity to change it came much sooner than he expected.

 

* * *

 

Medic started eating in the cafeteria with the men. That was the first step. He wasn't welcome there. He knew it and they knew it. They went quiet when he entered, but only to give him a sense of exclusion, not because they feared he might have something more important to say. But he wasn't going to cower in his room any longer, letting them forget about him and talk behind his back. He wouldn't tolerate such disrespect any longer. If they had something to say, they could say it to him directly and face the consequences.

There would never be another Hallway Incident.

The Heavy seemed to approve of his actions, as Medic knew he would. The man was less a brute than he appeared, but he placed more value on overt action rather than subtle plots. Medic would still need him on his side. Easier said than done, now that he knew exactly where they stood.

 _I know you,_ the Heavy had said, towering over him and leaning far too close. _I'm not getting fooled by you again._

 _We'll just see about that,_ Medic thought, watching over the rim of his coffee cup.

The big man was across the room from him that morning, his thick, solid bicep bulging with each curl of his arm and the large weight it held. Medic was trying not to watch. His eyes strayed from his plate nonetheless, drifting where they had no business going. The recreation room and mess hall were one and same in this facility, and Medic supposed that made sense given the sheer size of the space, but that didn't mean he had to approve. Tomorrow he would make a point of facing the other way.

The Sniper and Scout were seated behind him. Every now and again he would hear their low, unkind laughter and suspected it was directed at him. It would be interesting to see if they would continue it with his eyes on them instead.

The others were scattered around the room in groups of two or three, with the exception of the Engineer. He sat – or stood, rather, on his odd mechanical legs – at his own small table, leafing through a newspaper for a county Medic wasn't familiar with. The Soldier was utilizing the exercise equipment with the Heavy, and the Spy was writing something in a thick little notebook while the Pyro watched over his shoulder. The Demoman was also at their table, looking half a corpse as he picked at his omelet. Medic sat alone.

Every single one of them looked up and stared as the doors to the mess hall were pushed open and a woman stepped inside.

They had been alone for weeks. Not a single soul besides themselvs had been glimpsed in the halls, and only their own voices were heard in discussions. To see a new person, a stranger, coming walking in like they owned the place was unsettling.

She was blonde and immaculate. Her hair sat atop her head in a simple, professional knot, a splash of vivid colour against her pale grey skirt and jacket and stark white blouse. Delicate, manicured hands were folded neatly in front of her as she stood, looking placidly around the room at each of their faces in turn. When her eyes – a vivid, electric shade of blue – landed on Medic, she smiled. He shivered.

“Hello, Doctor,” she said, in a precise American accent, and something about her voice made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. “Mr. Mann has requested to speak to you.”

Medic stared. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Heavy get to his feet.

“The Boss wants a word?” he asked, frowning at her. “What about?”

She turned toward him, still smiling, and across the room the Engineer set down his newspaper.

“I'm sorry,” she said, calmly, “I was not told the nature of the discussion. Mr. Mann has asked that the Medic be brought to his office as soon as he is available. I have been asked to escort him.”

All eyes swiveled across the room to Medic. Some wide in confusion, others narrowed in suspicion, but all of them on him nonetheless. Slowly, he stood.

“Is there anything I should bring?” he asked, carefully walking around the table. Her smile had not wavered for a second since the moment it appeared on her face.

“Only yourself, Doctor.”

Medic caught the Heavy's eye for the briefest of moments. He wasn't sure if he believed the concern he found there.

And then he was following the strange woman through the cafeteria doors, not daring to look back as they closed ominously behind him.

The sound of her high heels clicking on the polished cement floor was as rhythmic and precise as clockwork. His own heavy footfalls felt clumsy and out of time compared to hers, thudding along as he followed slightly behind. She turned and led him down a hallway that he had previous never been brave enough to explore.

There was something unnerving about the way she moved. Not stiff, not necessarily too fast or too slow, and yet... Simply watching her open doors, or moving her head and shoulders as she walked was deeply discomfiting. None of that was lessened by the fact that, until she walked into the room, not a one of them had ever seen her before.

“Who are you?” he found himself asking, keeping as careful a distance between them as he dared. She turned her head and smiled at him.

“My name is Patricia. I am one of Mr. Mann's assistants.”

Despite not looking where she was going, her footsteps didn't slow or stumble. She remained in a straight line. Medic looked quickly away.

“Have you worked for him long?”

“No, Doctor. Only as long as I've been needed.”

Medic decided he didn't want to ask anymore questions. Anything to make her stop looking at him.

She led him to a set of large, polished steel doors at the end of a long hallway and came to a clean, immediate stop. There was a keypad beside the doors. She entered the code far too quickly for Medic to memorize the sequence, try as he might.

The doors parted to reveal a small, empty room with wood-paneled walls and a metal rail running around the perimeter; an elevator.

Trying and surely failing to hide his confusion, Medic followed the woman into the elevator. He looked down at he floors – tiled marble, absurdly out of place in the rest of the facility – just in time for the doors to glide shut behind them. The sudden flop in his stomach told him the lift was moving, and quickly, but he had no idea if they were going up or down. He resisted the instinct to hang onto the railing.

There was a pleasant chime as they reached their destination all of seventeen seconds later, according to Medic's count. The elevator came to a gentle stop. Soundlessly, the doors slid open.

The room was white.

White walls, white curtains, white tiled floors. White light fixtures. A white clock, white shelves. A sleek, modern white desk. And behind it, an enormous, unoccupied _black_ leather chair. Medic stared, blinking at the brightness of it all. And the strangeness. After a week of dark steel and dull concrete, seeing a room like this with all it's cleanliness and fine furnishings was almost startling.

The woman who brought him here stepped out of the elevator first. The tap of her heels on the marble floor drew Medic's attention back to the present. He followed her tentatively, half afraid his boots would scuff the tiles.

“Dr. Schaller.”

Medic couldn't repress his flinch. Not only from being startled by the sudden voice, but also from hearing the name – _his_ name – again. He turned to face the call, straightening to his full height to cover his moment of weakness. He wasn't quite sure what he expected.

A diminutive man stood at the end of the room. His hair was as clean and white as the walls, his suit pale grey and finely cut. His face was lined and thin with age, but it was his eyes that held Medic where he stood. Great, pale eyes that seemed to fill his face, sharp and keen and locked to Medic's own. The man smiled.

“You've arrived,” he said, thin hands folding together in front of himself. His voice was high and oddly cheerful, previously only heard through a television screen.

This was the mysterious Grey Mann.

“You sent for me?” Medic said, pleased with the formal, polite tone of his own voice.

“ _Requested,”_ Grey Mann corrected, taking a few short steps forward. His shoes were polished to a mirror shine, tapping softly on the tiles. “I merely requested your presence, doctor. And I thank you for accommodating me.”

Medic wasn't fooled.

But he could play the flattered fool, if called for. Not now, perhaps, but later on. He kept his expression neutral yet interested, genuinely curious about what this odd little man had in store. Previous promises were made, after all. He was curious to see if they would be made good on.

“That will be all, Patricia,” Mr. Mann said, waving a thin-fingered hand dismissively toward the still smiling woman as he made his way to the big black chair behind his desk. She nodded stiffly to him, and then to Medic. The smile remained fixed unnaturally on her face even as she turned and stepped back into the elevator. Even as the doors closed in front of her, she still smiled.

Grey Mann cleared his throat.

“It's good to finally meet you in person, doctor,” the little man said. He stood behind the desk but did not sit. “As I said, I've followed your work for quite some time. Tell me, how do you find it working with your former team again?”

Medic chose his words carefully before answering.

“We are no longer a team,” he said, with as much quiet disdain as he could muster. “These men have been apart too long without structure. They lack discipline, and deference. The years have taken a physical toll as well, but that is of little concern when compared to their attitudes.”

“They have had difficulty working together?”

“Not at all. The muscle memory is still there. But they are disorganized and too used to operating on their own. It will be difficult for some of them to become accustomed to taking orders again.”

Grey Mann clasped his hands in front of him.

“And how do you suggest we remedy that, doctor?”

 _With violence, preferable,_ Medic thought to himself. _It's the only language most of them understand._

“Time. I know these men, Herr Mann. They will not relinquish their pride without token defiance, but they _will_ relinquish it. The Heavy is the only one among them fit to lead... and I can deal with him.”

“Can you?”

Grey Mann's expression had hardened, but there was a glimmer in his wide, watery eyes that Medic recognized all too well. There was intelligence in those eyes. Cold, ruthless calculation. And a challenge. Medic made his own mirror of the smaller man's posture and clasped his hands crisply behind his back.

“I have never needed their loyalty,” he said, tilting his chin in such a way that he knew to be intimidating – it had certainly had an effect on Scout and Soldier, at least. “Only their respect. Respect can be acquired in many ways. I have my own methods that I have found to be most effective.”

Grey Mann smiled.

“It sounds as though you have everything under control, Dr. Schaller.”

Medic inclined his head; a gesture as much a move to hide his grimace. When he looked up, Grey Mann was walking around the desk toward him.

He was terribly short. Medic knew better than to think that made him any less dangerous, but the image that had been churning in his mind since the video call was of a slightly more imposing figure. One near his own height, if not taller, rather than the little man whose head barely reached his shoulders. He was thin, as well. And elderly. Medic quickly searched his face for any sign of the Mann family resemblance, but aged and sagging skin did little to say one way or another. Helen said he couldn't be who said he was. Erik was not in the habit of doubting her.

“While you are waiting for your team to fall into line,” Grey Mann said, striding past him, “I believe I have something that may hold your attention.”

Medic turned to watch the elevator doors open soundlessly once more, and the little man stepped inside to look at him expectantly. He followed.

This ride was significantly longer than the one before it. Medic was certain they were heading downwards now, presumably below the very facility he'd been stationed in these past weeks. Just how large was this place? The factory warehouse occupied most of the massive property, but there was clearly just as much going on beneath the surface as there was above. How long had all of this been here? How could it have become such a large threat so quickly without anyone noticing?

The lift came to another gentle stop, and the doors opened with a soft chime. Grey Mann stepped out first. Medic remained where he was, staring.

It was a laboratory.

The sterile, chemical scent of disinfectant hit him first. Achingly familiar and welcoming to him, as were the white walls, the polished stainless steel counter-tops, the gleaming beakers and glassware. Immense and delicate machines that even he was unfamiliar with were spaced appropriately around the room, looking frozen in their robotic tasks as Medic stepped haltingly into the large room. Shelves and cabinets stocked with supplies. A row of privacy screens and unmade recovery beds off to the side. Even further back, a wall of doors that could only serve as a morgue. Medic turned in his place, unable to disguise the wonder on his face as he looked around. It had been years – decades – since he'd seen a lab of this size, much less worked in one. And with the modern equipment and advances in the sciences, he could very well spend years at a time in such a place, learning the ins and outs and pushing his theories and experiments into fruition.

“Doctor?”

Grey Mann's voice was light, almost teasing, and Medic realized his mouth was hanging open. He closed it with a snap.

Actually stepping into the huge lab space sent goosebumps tingling up and down his arms, intoxicated by the clean, antiseptic air. He stopped a few feet in front of the open elevator, still unsure what exactly they were doing here. Mann's smile only widened as Medic tried to compose himself.

“What do you think of the facilities, Dr. Schaller?” the little man asked. Medic didn't shiver this time. He swallowed.

“This is an impressive laboratory. Your scientists must be very well supplied.”

“They are indeed. My Research and Development department is state of the art and highly prioritized on the budget. But not here. _My_ scientists have their own property to conduct their research, well out of the way of the main operations. This is _your_ lab, doctor.”

Medic's eyes widened.

“ _Was?”_

“Your days of living out of a shoebox are over,” Grey Mann said, gesturing broadly around the room. “You'll no longer have to work with the scraps my foolish brothers tossed your way, or make do with whatever you were able to piece together for yourself in your time off the grid. I am not in the business of half-measures, and I didn't bring in a mind like yours simply to waste it on meaningless, repetitive brawls in the dust. A pity my brothers never knew what they had under their noses. They may have survived me, if they had.”

He paused, long enough for Medic to catch the wry smile that briefly crossed his lips.

“But as it is, the gift of your company has fallen to me. I would not waste your time, either, setting you task after menial task while larger opportunities stand on the horizon. I believe I made you certain promises, Dr. Shaller. I am very much a man of my word. A partnership. A sharing of minds and a fostering of ideas, and how better to make that possible than with a place for you to work uninterrupted?”

“Am I not to be working with the others any longer?” Medic asked, confusion briefly overriding his awe at this development. Perhaps all his work and planning would be for nothing after all.

“If the situation warrants your company, you will occasionally be tasked with joining them on combat missions,” Grey Mann said carefully, “but it is my preference that your primary efforts be focused here. Who you talk to and where you take your meals are no concern of my mine, and I believe you'll find our standards on monitoring much more lenient than your time with the former Company.”

Medic very much doubted that. A quick glance around told him the location of at least three cameras and he was certain a thorough sweep would uncover a half dozen listening devices. Helen certainly kept tabs on him, but never more than would be considered excessive. In the early years it was because she didn't trust him. Later, it was to keep tabs on her own interests in his work. It was unclear was Grey Mann's interests even were.

“And what efforts are those?” Medic asked, refocusing his attention on the little man before him. “What exactly is it you expect me to be working on for you?”

Mann's smile was as thin as the rest of him, stretched wide across his face.

“I expect you to be working on your _work,_ doctor,” the little man said, seeming to look him straight in the eye even though he stood older a foot shorter. “Speaking plainly, as we are both men of science, I have provided you this space with the intention that you continue your experiments with extending the human lifespan... indefinitely.”

 _He doesn't know,_ Medic realized with a jolt, and had to quickly compose his expression.

Grey Mann had said before there were some details about Medic's recent life that he'd been unable to uncover. The success of the transfusion – the _immortality_ – must have been one of those things.

Maybe he didn't know about Helen, either. Or Laura. Maybe she and René could be safe.

“I understand that we have different goals, you and I,” Grey Mann pressed on, walking further into the lab. “In my own efforts, I have prioritized the preservation of the mind above all else. The thinking consciousness, memories. The _soul,_ for lack of a better word. From the scraps of research I've been able to salvage of you work, doctor, I believe your focus has been keeping the body youthful and superior in strength and functionality. The classical goal of the _Ü_ _bermensch.”_

Medic's smile tightened. It was not a term he was fond of, and he had shied away from associating it with himself or his experiments. The connotation of it, in particular regards to himself as a German scientist pushing the natural bounds of the human body, was not something Medic liked to dwell on.

“Mind and body each have their own merits, their own strengths. I'm curious to see if one can be accomplished without the other. And speaking of _Ü_ _ber...”_

Grey Mann sstopped in front of what appeared to be a large refrigeration unit, turning back to face the Medic. “While this very much yours, to use for your purposes, there is also the matter of your teammates. You have expressed dissatisfaction with their present state, physically and mentally, yes? This will not do. I realized when I procured their services that they were no longer the men of legend, but I had hoped with the proper training and incentives that they might still be a formidable force. Tell me, doctor, in their current condition, do you believe these old men would be capable of standing against your former team?”

Medic had to think about that one.

The old Sniper was half blind. The Scout was no longer quick and agile as he had been in his youth. The Pyro huffed and puff beneath his mask every time she had to climb a flight of stairs, and the Demoman had lost both weight in both fat and muscle in his old age. Against their current RED counterparts, they would be at a physical loss. Even the Engineer, with all his mechanical upgrades, was literally not half the man he used to be. The Conagher's had gravel in their blood, but this was a new type of war.

The Heavy, Soldier, and Spy were the biggest threats. Both Heavies, old and new, were great hulking brutes and excellent tacticians. The difference between them was that the old BLU Heavy was a loud, aggressive leader, capable of making himself heard and understood and obeyed in a matter of seconds. The RED Heavy's limited mastery of the English language had cost them victories before, as had his tendency to focus on only one angle of attack and letting the other's do their own thing. Both of them were strong. If it came to blows, Medic wasn't sure which of them would come out on top.

The old Soldier was in the best shape out of all of them, possibly the best shape of his life. He was a trained combatant and a grizzled, actual soldier. But what the RED Soldier lacked in skill he made up for in enthusiasm and determination. A fight between them could last for seconds, or it could last for hours. And the Spies...

René was skilled. René was a highly trained and capable assassin. He was younger and stronger, and had technologies at his disposal that made him even deadlier than he already was. But at his core, despite his protests to the contrary, he was a good man. He held himself to his own skewed code of honour, and there were things that he would not do.

There was nothing the old Spy wouldn't do.

Medic had to play his cards very carefully here. If he seemed overconfident in the RED team, his loyalty may be questioned. If he exaggerated their skills, it could leave them woefully unprepared should a confrontation ever take place. He hoped it wouldn't. Both teams had their strengths and weaknesses. And as it stood, so far as he knew, RED was without both a Medic and an Engineer. But Grey Mann didn't need to know that.

“No,” Medic said, when had made up his mind. “No, they would not.”

Grey Mann sighed and placed his hand against the door to the refrigerator.

“I was afraid of that. Perhaps, then, there may be something you can do to remedy their shortcomings.”

The fridge opened with a soft _whoosh_ and a foggy cloud of super-chilled air. Medic stepped closer, as he was clearly meant to do, and frowned slightly at the contents. At first, he didn't even know what he was looking at.

Two shelves, each with two rows of large sterile dishes containing something thick and misshapen, hard to distinguish beneath the plastic they were wrapped in. Carefully, Medic grasped one and lifted it off its tray. Though it was nearly frozen, it squished beneath his fingertips. Medic held it out into the light, and stared down at the massive organ in his hand.

“It _is_ mega baboon hearts that you use, isn't it, doctor?” Grey Mann asked, grinning tacitly when Medic looked up to gape at him. “We had some trouble acquiring them, as mega baboons are registered as an endangered species, but their condition is immaculate.”

“You want me to implant these men with the _Über_ upgrade?” Medic asked, more out of surprise than a need for clarification.

“Of course. It will give them a sorely needed edge, and even the playing field, don't you think? This wouldn't be the first time under your knife, as I understand it.”

 _Last time, they weren't supposed to walk away,_ Medic thought bitterly. If Mann thought that any of them would let him get them anywhere near an operating table ever again-

“I have this procedure listed as mandatory,” the little man said, answering the unasked question. “I paid for the best, and I won't settle for anything less. And, if there are any _other_ experiments you wish to pursue, particularly those requiring live subjects, I'm sure I could offer incentives to motivate volunteers.”

There was a sharpness to Grey Mann's smile, and a glint in his eyes that Medic couldn't help but find familiar. They were two men of the same mind. Despite everything, Medic found himself liking the little man.

“Is there a Respawn system at this facility?” Medic asked, replacing the heart on its tray.

“We just got it up and running this morning.”

Medic smiled, and thought of the sound of steel toed boots echoing down a hallway.

“I have just the thing in mind.”

 


	16. A Step Behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayyyy getting back into the swing of this who "regularly updating" thing. or trying to
> 
> also this chapter is officially me ending my own stupid trend of naming chapters after songs. at first it was gonna be like a built in soundtrack, and i am still going to make a playlist for this story like i did for ADIFI, but definitely after it's finished. it's too fucking stressful to try and i find a song that a.) fits the chapter and b.) has a title that doesn't sound like complete bullshit. so. i can't say that i won't do it again, but this chapter and all chapters after it won't be named after songs as a rule.

The Sawmill was a fucking mess, to say the very least.

They had all underestimated just how much work the place needed in order to be considered habitable again. The years of near constant rain had taken a toll on a building that was made almost entirely of wood. With no one to keep up repairs, the gutters had all clogged long ago, unable to drain the water and instead allowing it to seep and drip through into the walls.

The first night at their new impromptu home, it had rained heavily for hours, which had the benefit of allowing them to locate every single hole in the badly rotted ceiling and get absolutely no sleep at all.

The walls were rotted as well, with large gaps between the boards that allowed the wind and rain and all manner of insects to slip in. The mosquitoes were huge, terrible things. The moths were worse. Heavy, fluttering beasts bumping carelessly around the dim light bulbs and flapping against the windows in the middle of the night. Every morning, someone found a new hole in one of their shirts. Spy was becoming desperate.

Food was a concern as well, of course. The power was finicky at best, and any food that needed to be stored had to be either pickled or smoked to keep it fresh in the likely event that the fridge and freezers would shut down. Sniper went hunting on the second day, smearing himself with mud and forgoing a shirt in order to camouflage himself. Some of them had laughed when he left, but no one was laughing when he returned that evening dragging a large, meaty elk carcass behind him. Soldier found canned goods in one of the old cabinets, pickled beets and peanut butter and peaches in syrup. At the very least, they weren't in danger of starving for a good long while.

The generators were running low on gas, as was Sniper's van. Turning on the full power grid ran the risk of attracting attention, so they did so sparingly, if someone needed healing or to power up the massive saws.

The one thing they had absolutely no want for was lumber.

Heavy was handling most of the construction. From what Spy was able to gather, he had built a cabin out in the Siberian wilderness for his family completely on his own, and the place was still standing. He seemed to have made it his personal mission to see the main building returned to comfortable, livable standards. He did an admirable job of it, too. At the end of a week he'd reinforced the walls and outer doors on the main building where they were all staying. He enlisted Pyro and Scout to help him with the roof, where he couldn't set foot without bringing the whole thing down under his weight, patiently calling instructions up to them and passing them huge slabs of timber with his bare hands. In another few days, it may even stop leaking.

Demo was the first of them to find a weapon. Or rather, build one.

The first morning Spy walked into the dining room, badly in need of coffee after another long and lonely night, and instead found Demo sitting at the table with three completed pipe bombs in front of him and another in the works.

“What in the hell are those for?” Spy asked.

“Contingency plan,” the Demoman replied, with a such a serious expression that Spy was too unnerved to speak to him for the rest of the day.

More bombs had been made since then, and the Scotsman had retreated into the shed out in the yard with hardly a word for anyone. The coffee machine had been disassembled for parts. No one had argued. There were other ways of making coffee.

The rest of the weapons had all been found and distributed, passed back to their original owners. An SMG for Sniper, one of Pyro's old Backburner's, a couple multipurpose shotguns that went to Soldier and Miss Pauling, one of Engineer's strange ray guns that Demo claimed, another of Spy's Sappers, Soldier's battered old Black Box, a pistol for Scout – and a frying pan from the kitchen. Also for Scout. They had also been lucky enough to find one of Engie's construction PDA's left in his old work shed. Pauling hacked into it with alarming ease, and within an hour they'd managed to find enough scrap metal to build a fully upgraded dispenser. It sat quietly humming in the corner of the Resupply Room, working its strange magic to create ammunition out of thin air. Periodically one of them would go in and empty it, storing the latest haul in the cabinets until they needed it and letting the thing refill. Unfortunately they didn't have enough metal left over to make any sentries or teleporters, but that was just another thing to keep an eye out for. The sentries would be invaluable support should they come under attack. But no one wanted to think about that just yet.

Respawn was running. That was the first thing Miss Pauling did when they arrived. The Kritzkrieg they found was perfectly capable of handling their injuries, but it was much better to be safe than sorry. If there were any issues like infection or debilitation due to injury, a “hard reset” of a person's systems was generally the best solution to fix it. No one wanted to put a bullet in a comrade, certainly not so soon after very nearly permanently losing some of them, but sometimes the bullet was the kinder option. Unfortunately, there were just some things a medigun couldn't fix.

But for minor injuries like scrapes and splinters, most people just went to the dispenser anyway.

Spy was in charge of the Medigun. He was also in charge of cleaning up and maintaining the infirmary, making sure everything was sterile and in working condition. No one had actually _put_ him in charge, but they hadn't argued either when he began to stake out his territory. They didn't say anything when he started to sleep down there either.

Being in the infirmary felt like being closer to Erik.

It was foolish and sentimental and Spy knew it. Five years ago he would have been embarrassed, would have hid his actions or at least been more subtle about it. But that was then, and this was now. So much had changed.

The first thing he did was take thorough inventory. Every bottle of pills, every little vial, every suspiciously unlabeled container that the good doctor had left lying around was pulled from its shelf and noted. Several locks had to be picked. One had to be broken off. There was an impressive store of painkillers behind the little metal doors, all of them with child proof lids. Spy recognized them immediately, the same little blue tablets that Sniper had shoved under the mattress in his van. Spy put two and two together and filed that away for later.

Medic's desk was nearly empty. Erik always kept his most personal things in his desk, where it was unlikely for anyone to accidentally find them. His journals, his drawings, the more horrific and ethically questionable of his experiments, all were kept under tight lock and key in the confines of his desk drawers. The desk was the first thing to be packed and unpacked whenever they moved bases. Setting up his desk at home, in the little cottage by the lake, had been a milestone moment for them both.

But this desk was empty, save for a few worn down pencils and crumpled up pieces of paper. Spy carefully smoothed them all out, hoping to find some scrap of the man he could keep for himself. A sketch would have meant the world to him.

They were only reports, full of crossed out info in the wrong line or too many misspelled words after a long day of fighting. Not terribly interesting, but Spy couldn't bring himself to throw them away.

It hurt that he hadn't called yet. Over two weeks without any contact at all was starting to take a toll. René didn't know if he should be angry or scared by this point, so he settled for a mix of both. If Erik called again – _when_ he called again – and proved to be in good health, Spy had a few choice words picked out to say to him.

But he wasn't the only one missing the doctor and feeling abandoned, of course.

Miss Pauling was doing an admirable job of pretending to be fine. She offered advice and instructions to anyone who asked. She attended meals and made sure all the found weapons were up to company standards before allowing them to be returned to active status. She single-handedly restored power to Respawn and the communications network, though she was still having trouble finding a stable signal and contacting any other secure Mann Co. divisions. She wouldn't divulge the specifics, but it sounded as though as though more of the company was affected than they first realized.

Spy was fairly certain he was the only one who noticed the dark circles beneath her glasses, and the way he her hands shook when she poured her morning coffee. She wasn't sleeping any more than he was.

He'd felt selfish at first, keeping the truth about Medic from her. Even under orders it felt wrong. But at least then he had the comfort of his own knowledge that Erik was safe and alive and doing work on his own. Now he didn't even have that.

Which was how he found himself creeping into the “Administrative Access Only” room at three in the morning with a cup of tea in each hand, knocking softly with his elbow.

Miss Pauling was still awake, as he expected her to be, slouched over the massive panel of buttons, switches, and levers in front of the wall of security monitors. She jolted upright when he pushed the door open, and the movement on her hand told him she had a weapon under the desk. She relaxed when he realized who he was, and what he was carrying.

“Oh,” she said, as he closed the door behind himself. “You didn't have to do that.”

“I know,” Spy said as he passed her her cup. “But I assumed you might be in need of a break, small as it is.”

She sat back down, tucking one leg up under herself in the seat as she got comfortable. He could see her shoes tucked under her chair, probably discarded hours ago when comfort began to out-prioritize decorum. She sipped politely and gave him an odd look.

“Huh. Milk and no sugar. Having you been spying on me, Spy?”

“Merely an educated guess, _mademoiselle,”_ he replied, and hoped the semi-darkness of the room hid some of the tightness to his smile. That was how Erik took his tea and coffee as well. It followed that his granddaughter, whom he had raised, would have picked up on such habits.

“You can sit if you want,” Miss Pauling told him, pointing to a rusted stool with a plastic cushion sitting next to the door. “I, uh, didn't expect anyone else to be up this late.”

“I know,” he said again. He carefully balanced his tea as he dragged the stool closer to where she sat. He glanced at the monitors, at the two screens that monitored and two rooms they all slept in on their moldy mattresses and haphazard piles of pillows and blankets. Scout, Heavy, Soldier, and Demo all shared a room while Pyro slept in the room with Sniper and Spy himself. No one really knew where Miss Pauling slept. _If_ she slept.

She was watching him over the rims of her cup and glasses, eyes narrowed and gleaming in the unnatural screen lighting.

“So you _have_ been spying on me.”

“Merely observing,” Spy corrected. “It is only spying if I am being paid.”

“That's a matter of opinion.”

He paused.

“I did not mean to overstep my bounds. I apologize if I have caused offense.”

Miss Pauling looked at him for a moment longer, then sighed. She set her tea carefully on the control panel.

“You're fine, Spy, relax. I was just testing you, sorry, it's a- a thing I do. Habit.”

“Understandable,” Spy said, and meant it. He was guilty of such actions as well. When one is used to being cautious, to having no one to trust and always being on edge, it became difficult to look at anyone's actions and not search for ulterior motives. Perhaps one day he would grow out of it. Doubtful, but maybe.

He turned his attention to the glowing monitors, many of which were simply filled with static.

“Have you found anything?”

Miss Pauling turned in her chair, quickly tapping a few keys.

“Yes and no. I've been trying to get in touch with another operations, but it looks like most of the cells are down. Or they've gone radio silent. Both of which aren't good.”

“No one is answering?”

“Nope. And the security measures are all out of whack, too. Some low-level operations on on high alert while top secret jobs are practically operating out in the open. And I've got about four different programs running so we can't be tracked, which is of course interfering with the quality of what I _have_ been able to pick up.”

“Have their been any other confirmed attacks by those... robots?”

She nodded grimly, smacking a few more buttons. A screen near the top flashed into action, showing slightly blurry footage of a group of helmet wearing, bazooka-toting metal monstrosities marching toward what looked like a low office building. Gunfire flashed from the windows, but the robots did not stop. There was a blinding flash, and then the camera shook violently and lost focus.

When it finally steadied itself, there wasn't enough of the building left to be recognizable. Only smoking ruins.

“That was in Albuquerque,” Pauling told him, then pointed at another screen to the far right. “And this was in Nevada.”

A significantly higher quality image popped up before stuttering into motion. Two men in security guard uniforms stood in what looked like a break room, one of them enjoying an apple. He said something and turned around, like he was going to leave, but he never made it to the door. The second man shimmered, a jarring transition from flesh to metal, until he was no longer a man at all. The robot produced a knife and drove it deep between the shoulder blades of the unsuspecting security guard. The half eaten apple rolled across the floor. The robot's free hand shifted strangely, and then it looked right at the camera. It pointed, and a moment later there was a muzzle flash. The screen went dark.

“They're spreading,” Miss Pauling said, looking at his face. She took another small sip of tea. “And the way things are right now, we have no way of knowing just how much of the country has been infiltrated.”

Spy sipped his tea as well.

“That sounds bad.”

“It's actually terrifying.”

They both sipped together, and lowered their cups as one. Spy stared at the black screen where the metal copy of himself had assassinated its target moments before. He wondered if it had been discovered and stopped, or if it was still out there. Or perhaps the facility it had infiltrated had already been attacked.

“There's a few more tapes like that,” she said, but made no move to pull up any of the footage. “And even more that I haven't cleaned up yet. I've been trying to find some sign of the Administrator, or even Saxton Hale, but if they're still alive then they're staying well off the grid. And I don't feel secure enough to actually reach out to anyone yet. Especially not after _that.”_

The pointed in the direction of the black screen as well. Spy frowned, turning this information over in his head.

“What sort of facilities are they targeting?” He thought of the gunfire and the security guards. “Military? Weapons manufacturers?”

“Mostly factories and training facilities,” she said, nodding. “They're trying to cut off our offensive systems and it's working. I can only access Mann Co. databases from this terminal, but I wouldn't be surprised if they'd hit actual government bases as well. Or are planning to. This has hostile takeover written all over it.”

Spy shivered, remembering the last such takeover he had witnessed. Little more than a boy and far too old for his years, cowering in an alley as soldiers marched down the streets of his home city. Tanks and bodies in the streets, gunfire, explosions, the constant drone of propaganda. He'd barely managed to survive that, and only at great personal cost. Now, even with all his training and experience, he would never feel prepared for such an experience again.

“I'm sorry,” Miss Pauling said, apparently noticing his discomfort. “I didn't mean to-”

“It's nothing,” he said, cutting he off. There was no need to dredge up such a past. “Have the robots been sighted anywhere else, anything not military? Anything to give us an idea where they might strike or what they may be after?”

“I don't know that they're _after_ anything,” she said, quickly turning away and clacking at the keyboard again. “I've got a couple vague reports of some of those labs I mentioned having some trouble, but I haven't been able to dig up any concrete facts besides the alarms being tripped. All that footage is so corrupted, even without the scramblers... I don't know. I'll take another shot at cleaning it up and finding out what happened. It might be important.”

Spy glanced at the digital clock built into the control panel, glowing red numbers amid a sea of glowing buttons. It was nearly four AM.

“Perhaps it would be better to go over all of this with a fresh pair of eyes?” he suggested, and she followed his glance at the clock with a grimace.

“I'm not that tired, honestly. Eyes are still fresh.”

“You've been up a long time.”

“And I've been up much longer than this before, Spy. You should've seen my early days working for the Administrator. And besides, the tea-”

“-is decaf.”

She looked down at her cup.

“Where did you even get this anyway?”

“Pyro keeps a remarkable collection of things in their suit,” he said evasively, and got to his feet. He extended a hand. “Shall we?”

Miss Pauling pursed her lips together in a way that told him she would refuse before she said it.

“I'll be along,” she told him, with a lie in her smile. “I just need to shut everything down first.”

Spy accepted this falsehood with grace and let his hand fall back to his side. She would not be along, and she would likely not shut anything down at all. He suspected that she would sit there in this room, in the dark, squinting at buttons and monitors until the sun came up or someone came to check on her during breakfast. And he could not stop her.

“Very well. Goodnight, Miss Pauling.”

“Goodnight, Spy,” she said, and turned back to her wall of monitors.

Spy replaced the stool back against the wall and closed the door behind him as he left.

 

* * *

 

“So how you come you don't have a moustache?” Scout asked around a mouthful of instant grits at breakfast the next morning. At the other end of the table, Sniper set down his fork.

“Oh, fer- why'd you have to go asking a thing like that?”

“Well we're all thinkin' it!” Scout shot back, gesturing broadly around the table. “Demo was tellin' us last night about all the weird hairy people you guys saw in Australia, and you're Australian, right? So... how come you ain't hairy?”

Sniper glared at briefly at Demo, but his expression quickly became put-upon. The lanky man leaned back in his chair, long legs spread out beneath the table, and crossed his hands over his stomach. He sighed. Spy got the feeling this was an explanation he'd had to give before.

“Being hairy isn't an Australian thing, no matter what all those bloody tourist ads will tell you,” he began, speaking to the ceiling. “It's an _Australium_ thing.”

He paused, presumably for dramatic effect, and to let that information seep in.

Spy himself had to admit to being curious about this subject. He had grown up with the typical Australian stereotypes as well, of large, burly, hyper-masculine men and facial hair on people of all sexes and ages. The Australian pilots he'd met in the war – the _real_ war – had all fit the profile. Meeting Sniper for the first time, all those years ago, he had been unprepared for the accent that came from the mouth of this scrawny, gangly, clean-shaven fellow. For a time he simply thought the Sniper shaved for appearances, or to make himself stand out less for what he was. But never in all their years of knowing each other had Spy seen the man with any more hair on his face than a five o'clock shadow. If there was a true explanation for this then he would be very happy to hear it.

“Not _every_ Australian has got facial hair, alright?” Sniper said, sounding very tired of this conversation already. “Doesn't matter what all the posters for the tourist crap say. That's mostly in the big cities. All the big cities were built on top of massive Australium mines, and if you've seen Saxton Hale then you know what that stuff can do to a person. Makes 'em stronger and smarter and bigger, makes hair grow in weird places, but too much of the stuff can make a person go a bit mad. Now imagine that with generations and generations of exposure, whole families living above all that raw ore. It seeped into the water, it leeched into whatever was planted. Changed everything.

“The mines are all empty now, o'course, but the city is still humming with the stuff. All that technology runs on Australium. But in the outback and little dirt poor towns where my folks are from – where _I'm_ from – there hasn't been so much as a nugget of the stuff found in decades. It's just farmland and outback out there.”

He snorted derisively, shifting a little lower in his seat.

“Our products are marketed as “organic” or something because there's not a trace of that rock business in it. And only the finicky, new age types or other poor folks can or want to buy it, so none of us can afford any of the fancy Australium tech they've got in the cities. Not the good farming equipment or the meal replicators, or any of those funny tellies that make it look like the picture's coming out at you. Won't find none of that where I grew up. So we haven't got any of it in our systems. We have a _deficiency_ _,_ the government says. Tried to make us pay for supplement tablets a while back, wringing our hard earned money out of us to get us on hooked on something we haven't got any other way of getting. That plan fell through pretty fast, though I know a couple blokes who still take the stuff. Other than that, we're just not exposed to it, mate. No exposure, no side effects. It's not bloody complicated.”

He shrugged and fell silent.

All around the table, the interested faces of his teammates stared back at him, chewing slowly, digesting the little history lesson they'd just been given. It wasn't often that they got to really _learn_ things in this line of work, but Sniper's explanation was simple enough that even Soldier appeared capable of following along.

Honestly, it was also the longest that any one of them had spoken since arriving. Perhaps the most that Sniper had said at once, ever.

Scout, predictably, missed out on the peace of the moment.

“...So that's why you don't have a moustache?” he asked, and Sniper's scowl could have wilted flowers.

“What the fuck is it with you and moustaches?”

And then the moment was gone, and they were back to squabbling like animals. Spy caught Heavy's eye across the table and shared a long-suffering look. Heavy simply shook his head and went back to cutting his meal into neat, bite-sized pieces.

“Speaking of Australium,” Miss Pauling piped up, and Spy jolted in his seat. He hadn't even noticed she was at the table. Tucked at the end beside Pyro, several inches shorter than the shortest of them, she blended in well with the background. Sniper and Scout continued to bicker but everyone else looked in her direction. She looked at Spy as she spoke.

“I managed to clean up some of that corrupted footage I found, enough to at least find out where it came from.”

“Oh?” Spy said, noting the even darker circles beneath her eyes this morning, and the slightly crooked frazzled look of her hair. She clearly hadn't slept at all. She shoved a forkful of powdered eggs into her mouth and chewed quickly.

“It's a lab,” she said around her food. “Not even one of Mann Co's, technically, but I think the company owns some stock. It was supposed to be a real high end, top secret office, one of the only labs in the states authorized to work with Australium.”

“What were they doing with it?”

She swallowed hard, only to cram in another mouthful of eggs. He wondered when exactly was the last time she'd eaten.

“Dunno yet. Something about computers, really advanced stuff. Everything coming out of there is classified and encrypted and scrambled three ways to Sunday, but it definitely looks like the place was attacked on the same day we were run out of Badwater. So there might be something there.”

“A diversion?” Heavy asked, apparently having been listening closely to their conversation. The deep rumble of his voice was enough to attract the attention of some of the others. Miss Pauling shrugged.

“Maybe. I'll spend some more time looking at it today, but it might be a lead. Or a lead to a lead. It's more than we had, which is something. Can you pass me that pot of coffee?”

Spy didn't say anything about the way her hands trembled as she took the pot from the giant's hand. Heavy, at least, noticed it too.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've had my own theories about australium for a while and i feel like i read this shit in a post way back, but i honestly can't remember
> 
> anyway. i think it makes a little more sense tbh.


	17. Overlap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> great big thanks to everyone for waiting patiently and not giving up on me even though i'm terrible and can't even do things that i want to do anymore
> 
> it honestly means so much to even feel like i have something worth coming back to?

Well, that had been an entire morning wasted.

Medic stood at the large industrial sink in the back of his laboratory, as he done in many laboratories similar to this one before, and scrubbed the blood from underneath his fingernails. He was making progress. Fifteen minutes ago it had been slicked up to his elbows, threatening to stain the crisp white cuffs of his sleeves. Now, the red only clung to his nail beds and cuticles and in the deepest lines of his palms. A bit more soap and hot water and he would be clean.

He had intended to spend the entire day operating. He'd wasted valuable time getting a “good night's sleep” and getting everything set up for what he thought was going to be a long, exciting day. Today was meant to be the first implementation of the upgrades Mann had supplied for the team. How quickly it had all gone downhill.

Something was wrong with the hearts.

Medic had called in the Demoman first and made a show of the operation. He used the Medigun alone rather than any sort of anesthetic, as he become accustomed to doing, keeping the man strapped down and wide awake as Medic cut him out and toyed with his innards. Smiling with splatter and gore in his teeth, Medic felt the same sick rush of power he'd experienced during the laboratory raid, with screams and falling bodies all around. That little spark of something terrible was threatening to burn within him again, and in the moment he was more than inclined to let it. It was cathartic, after their last encounter, to hold the Demoman's heart in his hands as it exploded in front of him. It was a good decision to keep the patient gagged. He did not react well. And Medic's plan to calm him down, to restore some of the trust between them went up in flames when he prepared to charge the oversized baboon heart. He implanted the Über device, adjusted the voltage of the medigun, went to hold the heart under the stream and...

It exploded.

The second heart exploded as well, spattering gory chunks all over his lab coat and all over the screaming Demoman. The first, normal heart explosion he had been ready for and took joy in. But this was too much.

He swapped the implant device itself for a different one, just to be safe, but the third heart ruptured as well. Medic's mood had taken a sharp nosedive after that. It was nearly one in the afternoon and he hadn't gotten a single thing done.

He ended the procedure on a sour note, apologizing sarcastically to his patient as he shut everything down and began cleaning up.

The Demoman was heavily sedated now, restrained in one of the recovery cots with the healing vapors of the medigun trained on him. Without a heart, it was the only thing keeping him alive. A quick trip through Respawn would fix everything of course, but Medic wanted to make sure he got his point across.

He'd have to talk to Mr. Mann about where he was getting his exotic supplies. Medic still had contacts in the black market who owed him a few favours and were far more likely to provide high quality products. It would be a small matter to get in touch with them and have some deliveries arranged – if he was allowed to make any outside phone calls.

That was another problem he was going to have to deal with.

Medic shut off the faucet with his elbow and shook the excess water droplets from his fingers. He grabbed the bleached white hand towel from its hook and thoroughly dried his hands, pleased when it came away without any pink. He hung the towel back in its place and straightened it to dry. Then, he walked over to the supply closet.

The phone call issue was one he had a spent a great deal of time thinking about. It was vital that he have some privacy in order to get in touch with his people outside of Grey Mann's control. Helen would have been expecting a report a week ago, and René would likely be getting worried after going so long without contact. Erik had been patient about waiting for the perfect opportunity rather than make any suspicious attempts and get himself caught so early on in the game. His bedroom was out of the question. He knew there were listening devices and cameras in there, even if he could no longer find them. Besides, it was far too to simple to stand outside the door and listen in to any conversation going on within.

The rest of the building – at least what he had managed to explore of it – was either off limits or too public. The dining hall was always occupied, and also monitored. The hallways were monitored. The communal toilets were monitored. Every waking second of their lives was under surveillance, which made it difficult to commit any sort of duplicity. The warehouse was inaccessible and a total unknown.

Medic's new lab had become his last hope, and even that was a risk.

He knew observation was likely to be even heavier here, where he was supposedly left to his own devices. Despite Mann's offers of friendship and his apparent willingness to offer assistance, going so far as to give him authority to decide which procedures counted as “mandatory,” Medic still did not trust him. Helen saw him as a threat. That should have been evidence enough.

Over the last week, Medic had strategically rearranged or destroyed all of the bugs placed in his laboratory. Not drastically, not enough to raise suspicion – he'd made a show of looking for cameras and such on his first day in the lab, doing away with the more obvious ones for appearances sake – but enough to get what he wanted: a bit of privacy.

The supply closet had been turned into a blindspot. If Medic opened the door just so – which he did now – and stepped just inside – which he also did – then he would be completely out of sight from all the monitoring devices in the room. The audio bugs had all been moved out of range of this particular spot. If he was careful, he could get away with as many traitorous actions as he had time for without anyone being any the wiser. The only risk was that his absence on the cameras might raise suspicion, if he was out of frame for too long. But he'd behaved himself thus far. If he was lucky, they might cut him some slack.

Erik went through some last minute preparations, shuffling things around and moving supplies out onto the counter top. He caused enough movement to let anyone who might be watching know where he was and what he appeared to be doing. He'd rearranged the stocks before. This was nothing new or worth paying attention to. He hoped.

His heart was hammering in his chest by the time he was through. This was the biggest risk he'd taken since creeping around the hallways to eavesdrop on the Heavy. If he messed this up now he might not get another chance.

Medic took a deep breath. He took off his boot.

Not the most convenient place to hide a cellular phone, but it had worked so far. The little device was just sleek and thin enough to sit without causing too large of a bump, and the back of his coat covered even that. Medic flipped the thing open and held down the 2 button under his thumb until the screen lit up. He put the phone to his ear and waited.

The ringing went on long enough to make him worry. And when it was finally picked up, it was not Helen's rough, irritable rasp that greeted him.

“Conagher residence,” said a brusque Texan accent. Medic breathed a sigh of relief.

“Engineer?” he asked, careful to keep his voice down.

“Doc? Heck, is that you?”

“ _Ja,_ can you hear me clearly?”

“Gettin' a bit of feedback, but you're coming through clear enough. Been a while, we were startin' to worry for you.”

“How is Helen?” Medic asked right away. While it was very good to hear Engineer's voice, there wasn't time to even a second wasted on idle chatter. “Is she still there with you?”

“She's here,” the Engineer said, and there was hesitation in his voice. “Not likely to be goin' anywhere for a while, Doc. She's, ah, resting right now.”

“Resting? Has something happened? Is she alright?”

“She's- she's fine, nothing to worry about I don't think. I've been givin' her those transfusions like you said, been doing everything to the letter, but they always take a lot outta her for a day or two. And we just took care of this one this morning.”

“That is to be expected,” Medic told him, and unfortunately meant it. The serum that had sustained Helen and himself for decades was potent and aggressive. It forced the body to adapt and be in a state of constant growth and repair, which could be physically and mentally exhausting without conditioning. The first time Erik had successfully tested the elixir on himself, it had put him out of work for a fortnight. Even missing a dosage for a week would leave him drained. Helen had gone without for _years._ The formula he'd left with Engineer was an improved version that should have provided more and longer lasting benefits without taking such a toll, but with Helen's weakened state it was fortunate that she was even recovering at all.

“Inform me if her condition worsens or if you have questions regarding the dosage,” Medic continued.

“I'm sure we'll be fine here,” Engineer said. “Besides, I'm under strict under orders not to contact you unless it's a real emergency. How's the undercover life treating you, Doc?”

Erik gave him a quick rundown of the situation and the events that had transpired since his departure. The laboratory raid, the state of his former and his confrontation with them, a quick description of the massive factory they were at and it's rough location, and of course his personal dealings with the mysterious Grey Mann.

“He is nothing like I expected,” Medic said, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice. “He is not merely a scheming mastermind with illusions of grandeur, nor some billionaire with a sense of entitlement, he seems – he is a man of science. He's shown an understanding and appreciation for the higher pursuits of the subject and I believe there is far more to him than meets the eye. So far he has been very generous with his resources regarding my work. This assignment may not be so tedious if I am work more closely with a mind like his.”

“Your work?” the Texan asked, a frown in his voice. “What does he know about your work?”

Medic hesitated. He didn't want to worry Helen any more than she already was, but he didn't want to outright lie about this either: Grey Mann knew who he was. The secret that she had so carefully guarded for nearly a century was uncovered in a matter of minutes, and now there was nothing could do about it.

“Too much,” Medic simply said instead. “More than I expected, but it's too late to worry about that now. I can only make it work to my advantage.”

“What about his identity? D'you think he's actually another Mann brother?”

“You did just hear me say that he is highly intelligent with a scientific mind, did you not? I highly doubt he is of any relation to that ridiculous family. However, it is clear that _he_ believes himself to be of the Mann family line, and believes it very strongly. I don't know why. With all the surveillance we are under, I have learned precious little in my time here. Hopefully the next time we speak I will something more to report.”

“Honestly it's just good to hear from you at all, Doc,” Engineer said, with unexpected warmth. He quickly covered it with clearing his throat. “I take it time is a commodity here, right? Anything else before you go, anything you want me to do or look into from the outside?”

“Yes, actually. Bhatia.” Medic remembered the name suddenly, from the laboratory raid. He explained quickly. “There was a doctor in charge of the facility, she was the one with access to the device the Heavy confiscated. I don't have a first name or description, but it is an uncommon name. Perhaps there is something in the Mann Co. database that will help you learn what the lab was for?”

“Bhatia, with a T?”

“ _Ja,_ I believe so. The name was only mentioned once.”

“Got it. I'll show it to the boss lady when she wakes up and see what she has to say about it.”

“ _Danke,_ Dell. I appreciate that you are there to take care of her while I cannot. I trust that she is in good hands.”

“One of 'em, at least,” the other man joked, and Medic smiled for what felt like the first time in weeks. “I'll let you wrap up and get back to work, Doc. Take, uh... take care of yourself out there, alright?”

“I will do my best.”

Erik hung up the phone feeling profoundly more comforted than he had at the beginning of the call.

He was not alone this time. He was not starting anew without a friend in the world, no one to worry about or be worried for him, no one and nothing to hold him back or occupy his thought. This time, there were actual faces that he could put as the “reason” he was fighting. It was a strange feeling, to have friends. Helen would mock him mercilessly if he were to ever admit to such attachments, but he had to wonder just how long it had been since she'd allowed herself to care for another. To be _capable_ of caring.

There was someone out there that he cared for dearly. And he held the means of contacting them right in the palm of his hand.

Erik chewed the inside of his lip, deliberating. He'd been off camera too long. His absence surely would have been noticed by now. And yet no alarms had sounded, no man with a gun had kicked in his doors to see what had become of him. Perhaps there was no danger after all. Perhaps, if he was careful, there could be time...

Before he could talk himself out of it, he pressed the button that would connect him with René and put the phone back up to his ear.

“Hello?” answered an achingly familiar voice after a few rings. He sounded out of breath. “Erik? Hello, is that you?”

“It's me,” Erik said quickly, “It is me, _Schatz._ Are you alright?”

René laughed, a rough, relieved huff of air.

“I am so glad to hear you call me that.”

Erik wrapped an arm around his own middle, caught off guard by his own sentimentality and the warmth spreading through him ever since the phone was answered. He hadn't even realized how tense his shoulders were until he relaxed them.

“Are you alright?” he asked again. “You sound like you've been running.”

“I was. I had to get away from the others to answer your call. No easy task. There will be questions when I get back.”

“And what will you tell them?”

“That I had something important to attend to. And to mind their own business. How are you? Are you safe?”

“For the moment, _ja._ We are in a stable location, and there hasn't been any more fighting lately.”

“Any _more_ fighting?” René asked, and suddenly there was an edge to his voice. “What the hell has been going on with you, I haven't heard from you in _weeks,_ Erik, do you have any idea how worried I've been?”

“I'm sorry-”

“All this time I've been so afraid something might have happened and I would never hear about it, and even with this little phone I cannot reach you on my own for fear of losing contact forever, all I can do is sit and wait for some kind of word to reach me that you are still alive-”

“I know, and I'm-”

“-Sniper almost _died,_ if we hadn't made it out I would have had no chance to say goodbye-”

“What do you mean Sniper almost died?” Erik asked, frowning.

“-we've barely had a moment to catch out breath, and now that we've just gotten settled we are rushing around again because of this Australium nonsense, trying to make sense of it all-”

“Speaking of making sense, René-”

“-and _you_ couldn't even bother to make a simple phone call, leaving me in the dark all this time without any sense of-”

“ _René,”_ Erik said sharply, in a voice he knew would catch the man's attention. “Stop it. Calm down, _bitte,_ and speak slowly. Tell me what's going on. What happened to Sniper and what does Australium have to do with anything?”

Finally, René stopped.

“ _Merde,”_ he said, after a long silence. “I don't think I was supposed to tell you about that.”

“Well, I think it's a little late for that.”

Another pause.

“I'm sorry. I lost my head.” René sighed deeply into the receiver. “It has been a very trying past few weeks, _cher.”_

“For everyone, I think.”

“I was worried for you.”

“And I for you... I am sorry it's taken me so long to call. I wanted to be sure it would be safe to do so before-”

Erik jolted as something chimed from the front of his lab. The elevator. He had taken too long, and now his time was up.

“ _Scheiße,_ someone is coming. I have to go.”

“What? Erik, I just-”

It was a cruel twist of fate to spend half a conversation apologizing for not being able to talk and then suddenly having to cut it off. There was so much he wanted to ask, and so much he wanted to say.

“I'm sorry,” was all he could say, again, hissing it as the elevator doors slid open.

“I love y-”

Erik winced as he snapped the phone shut, knowing he would pay for that the next time they spoke. He hastily stuffed the device back into his boot and was in the process of straightening himself up when a pair of heavy boots clomped into the room.

“Medic!” called an entirely unexpected voice, booming through the laboratory. “Hey, Doctor, you in here?”

“ _Ja!”_ Medic called back, doing his best to appear casual as he stepped out of the closet with an armful of hastily snatched linens. “What do you need?”

When Medic came around the corner, he found the Heavy standing in the middle of the room, hands on his hips, staring at the unconscious Demoman.

“What the hell is this?” the Heavy growled, pointing at the Demo. “What the hell's wrong with him?”

“He has no heart,” Medic said, attempting to elbow the big man out of the way and pull the privacy curtains shut. The Heavy stopped him with one massive hand on his chest.

“S'that supposed to be a fucking joke?”

“ _Nein,_ he really does not have a heart in his chest at the moment. There were... complications.”

The Heavy's face twisted. He stepped forward and pulled the blankets down, exposing the sunken, unhealed cavity that made up the Demoman's chest. Medic hadn't bothered to patched up his breastbone or ribcage, and left the incision wide open for the moment. The cloth covering it was stained with patches of blood, but infection was the least of his worries. The medigun took care of all that. And it would be too much trouble to do it all over again should he decide to go poking around again later.

“Jesus fucking Christ...”

The Heavy let the blanket fall. He rounded on Medic.

“What the hell kind of complications are you talking about, huh? You get bored and decide to have a little fun with his insides?”

“Initially,” Medic said, turning dismissively and walking away. “I may have conducted some functionally unnecessary tests, made a point or two along the way, but the final procedure was where the trouble arose.”

He heard the Heavy suck in a breath as he continued further into the lab – he was not a man accustomed to be walked away from. And with good reason.

“So you _are_ up to your old tricks, aren't ya?” the man said, following close behind him. “Back this whole experimentation crap, this sanctioned fuckin' medical torture. That's still what gets you off, huh Doc, after these all these years?”

Medic ignored the jibe, reaching his desk and moving to pull the open cardboard box that sat on it toward him. Behind him, the footsteps got closer.

The Heavy grabbed his shoulder and spun him, grabbed the front of his coat and pushed him back roughly against the desk. Suddenly Medic found that his feet were no longer on the floor.

“I didn't come back to put up with this shit again,” the Heavy snarled, shaking him. “I didn't drag these men outta their comfy goddamn retirement just to put them right back under your knife, you fucking _butcher._ After everything you did to us, everything you did to _me,_ and you think you get to just come waltzing back in and pick up right where you left off? Well you better think again, because is ain't happening. Not on my fucking watch, it's ain't happening _ever again.”_

Medic didn't resist the manhandling. He made no attempt to free himself or fight back, beyond grabbing the other man's wrists to stop him to doing too much damage to the coat. Polarized blue plastic flashed dangerously in the place of eyes, but rage was etched into every jagged crag and scar of the Heavy's face. Medic simply blinked at him.

“You don't frighten me, Lucas.”

It had been many years since he had spoken that name. Many years more since he had spoken it to the one it belonged to. The Heavy's face slackened slightly in shock.

Medic tapped his wrists lightly with his index fingers and cleared his throat. The Heavy lowered him back to the ground, and Medic took a moment to straighten the front of his clothing. He looked up at him.

“What did you come here for?” Medic asked calmly. He made no move to widen the gap between them. “Besides to shout at me.”

The Heavy's lip curled slightly, but he surprised Medic by looking away.

“For my turn,” the big man said gruffly. He pointed to his own chest with a thick, gnarled finger. “For the heart thing. The upgrade. I thought you were gonna be taking care of everybody today, after you got done “taking care” of him.”

 _And you wanted to be next in line,_ Medic realized with grim satisfaction. Old habits died very hard indeed.

“That was the plan, yes. I told you there were complications.”

Medic grabbed again at the box on his desk, reaching inside to pull out a little metal device. It had three prongs on the bottom, like an electrical plug, and a little display meter on the top that was functionally useless when the device was in use. It was of Medic's own design. He may have been a little shortsighted in the testing phase.

“This is the mechanism I am going to place in your chest,” Medic said, placing the device in the Heavy's hand. “It is _supposed_ to hold a charge, and to diffuse a small dosage of my own formula into the bloodstream, providing temporary invulnerability to physical harm as well as other passive bonuses for a short amount of time. However, the standard human heart is incapable of sustaining it. The heart itself must also be replaced.”

He walked around the desk and pushed his chair out of the way. The largest bottom drawer typically required a key to open, but he had left it unlocked while he was still in the lab. From the bottom of it, he pulled out a dish containing the ruptured remnants of one of the baboon hearts.

The Heavy was already looking at the desk, rather than the device in his hand. Medic noticed too late what had caught his attention.

“Who's that?” the big man asked, nodding in the direction of the rough, half-completed pencil sketch of a man's features on the back of one of Medic's reports. René, without his mask. Medic covered the sketch with the bowl of gore.

“Practice,” he said smoothly. Inside, his stomach was in knots. He would have to be much more careful. He pointed at the bowl. “This is one of the replacement hearts.”

The Heavy peered suspiciously at it.

“Doesn't look like a heart to me.”

“Precisely. There is something wrong with them. This is the third that I wasted trying to complete the transplant process, and it is the reason this procedure must be put on hold. Until I can find the source of the problem, I am not going to waste my entire supply of rare, pristine organs trying over and over again. There will be no experiments for the time being. I imagine you and your “boys” should be very happy to hear that.”

The Heavy digested that information in silence, frowning at the bowl and its bloody contents. Medic couldn't tell what he was thinking behind those thick goggles. There was a time in his life when he could read this man's face like an open book, no expression was too small or cryptic to escape his notice or understand. Now, a bit of plastic and a handful of years had taken all of that away. Thinking back on it, Medic couldn't decide if he regretted that or not.

When the Heavy finally spoke, it seemed something of those lost years had crept back into his voice.

“This what you put in your new team?” he asked, holding up the Über device. “A big hunk of metal in each of their chests?”

“And in my own,” Medic told him, tapping lightly at his breast pocket.

“You telling me you cut into _yourself_ for this?”

“I would not have trusted anyone else.”

The Heavy snorted. He set the device down ungently on the desk.

“'Course you wouldn't, doctor. Trust just isn't in your nature.”

Medic did not take the bait, but something about the comment rankled. What would _he,_ of all people, know about trust? What was it the Heavy thought he knew about his nature? People changed, he told himself. _He_ had changed.

“What are you gonna do about him?” the Heavy asked, shattering all his delusions with a simple gesture toward the mutilated Demoman. Medic deliberated.

“I believe my point has been made.”

There was that curl to the Heavy's lip again, and Medic still had no idea what it meant.

“You want me to finish the poor bastard off or have you got a surprise lined up for when he wakes?”

“He's not going to wake up.” Medic said, carefully placing the Über device back into the box with the others. “I told you, he does not have a heart in his chest. The Medigun is the only thing keeping him alive.”

“This thing's that powerful?” the big man asked, striding back over to his teammate's bedside, laying a hand on the taped up barrel of the healing gun that Medic had spend years and years perfecting. He snorted. “It's a far fuckin' cry from the old first aid kit you used to run around with, eh?”

Medic grimaced despite himself, having momentary flashbacks to the horrible, early days of his medical experimentation, with quick-healing salves and unstable immunoviruses that reacted different according to their hosts. Messy business that took too much time to do its job in a crisis. The invention of the Medigun, a sustained healing beam that could knit flesh and mend bone with the flip of a single switch, was one of his greatest achievements. One that many on his team took for granted, once they became accustomed to it. Inwardly he preened under the praise. Outwardly, he busied himself with locking away the remnants of the baboon heart in his desk once more.

Once that was through he crossed the room to the Heavy's side and reached up to turn the Medigun off. The latch that held the lever in place was removed and it flipped off, and the red glow faded into nothingness in the air. Both of them looked at the Demoman. The colour began to drain from his face almost immediately as the overheal dissipated. Then the bleeding started.

The sheet that covered him was soaked through in seconds, a dark, wet scarlet that spread and spread the longer they watched, threatening to bleed over its confines and create a real mess. And then the Respawn system kicked in. Medic squinted slightly as the body was reclaimed by the bright glow, disintegrating right before their eyes and leaving behind nothing but a pile of bloody blankets.

The Heavy put a hand on his shoulder.

“Never again,” he said, soft enough that his tone might be mistaken as gentle. His grip tightened, huge fingertips digging cruelly into Medic's skin. _“Never fucking again.”_

 

* * *

 

“Ah, Dr. Schaller!”

Grey Mann stood in the middle of his office, smiling broadly as the elevator doors slid open. Medic returned the smile as genuinely as he could under the circumstances.

He had spent the last day trying to work out how to approach his complaint without sounding accusatory or overly aggressive. The fact of the matter was the supplies he had been given were unusable. Whether that was deliberate or an unfortunate oversight was something he had yet to find out. Hopefully without overstepping his uncertain bounds and finding himself in hot water.

This was also the first time Medic had been with Grey Mann on his own terms. Perhaps he could get some other answers as well.

The white office was just as he remembered it. A pair of heavy blinds had been pulled across the windows, blocking all natural light from entering the room. The brightness came from overhead, from rows of fluorescent light bulbs. They lent a sickly, washed out quality to the little man standing expectantly in front of him. Medic stepped into the room. The elevator doors slid closed behind him.

“Thank you for meeting me on such short notice,” Medic said, nodding graciously. He stopped just short of tacking on a _sir._ He would not stoop that far just yet. “I appreciate the opportunity to speak to you.”

“Of course, of course, though I'm sorry to be speaking about such an unfortunate topic. Come, sit and tell me about this problem of yours.”

Grey Mann moved around the desk and settled into the massive black leather chair, looking almost comically small in comparison. There were two sleek white chairs in front of the desk for visitors. Medic took the one on the right.

“I understand you've begun the upgrade process on your teammates,” Mann said before Medic could speak. “I'm pleased by your initiative, doctor. I expected you to take a few days to familiarize yourself with your laboratory, but I see now how unnecessary that would have been. If a man of your experience has seen one operating room I suppose he has seen them.”

He was attempting to be friendly. Charming, evening. Medic saw through the intentions but appreciated them all the same. This man clearly wanted him to like him. Medic smirked.

“Something like that, yes. Though I am not so accustomed to such fine quarters. It will be interesting to have everything I need at hand, for once.” He paused. “I assume you have already received complaints regarding my methods?”

Grey Mann's smile widened, which had the effect of emphasizing the whiteness of his teeth and the hollowness of his cheeks.

“Oh, yes. Several complaints were filed the very first day you arrived and that number has only grown. Your men don't seem to like you very much, Dr. Schaller.”

“Their dislike will not affect my ability to work with them.”

“Good to hear. I wonder if they share the sentiment.”

Medic highly doubted it. He did not say as much.

“So what is it that's prevented you from moving forward with your work?” Mann asked, leaning forward to steeple his fingers on the desk, all professional concern once more. Medic matched his tone.

“I'm afraid there are defects within the materials that I cannot repair. The hearts are not responding to the necessary treatment they way they are meant to. Three of them have ruptured. I have not tested the rest, and I have no wish to waste a fourth. I've been unable to identify the precise problem, but I believe the easiest course of action would simply be to obtain a new supply.”

“That is unfortunate,” Mann said, frowning. “I will have to have a word with my suppliers, and of course replace the goods as soon as possible. I apologize for this inconvenience, doctor, truly. I would see this resolved as soon as possible so that you can continue your work. There is much to be done, and your team is vital to the success of this enterprise.”

“And what enterprise is that?” Medic asked quickly, shifting in his seat. “All this talk of upgrades and work toward progress, and yet I don't believe I've been told exactly what it is I am to be doing here.”

The whiteness of the room was off-putting. There was something aggressive about the general lack of colour, the specific manipulation of the light and darkness in the room. Grey Mann's skin was thin and pale, his lips even thinner and paler as he smiled tightly over the expanse of the desk.

“While I understand your confusion, I must ask that you wait a little longer for your answers. The matter is, unfortunately, very up in the air at the moment. When it comes times for your role in all this, doctor, believe me when I say you'll be the first to know about it. There are simply some adjustments that need to be made first.”

That was not the answer Medic wanted to hear.

He had been promised a partnership. However false that offer may have been, the illusion of it would have been appreciated at the very least. Things were being hidden from him. _Everything_ was being hidden from him. Mann spoke unendingly of trust and cooperation yet seemed unable to follow his own advice. He did not trust Medic. Smart, of course, but very frustrating.

Medic had been playing it too safe. He had not been bold at the risk of being disagreeable, and he hadn't been overly agreeable at the risk of sounding too bold. This was an error. One way or the other, he needed to tip the balance on his favour. He needed _something_ concrete to sink his teeth into.

He made up his mind.

“Thank you, then, for your time. Although I must confess – this was not the only matter I wished to speak with you about today.”

Suspicion, quickly replaced by polite interest, flashed across the man's face. He sat back in his chair, indicating that Medic ought to continue with his line of questions. Medic found himself hesitating.

“There is also the matter of... Australium.”

Something changed in Grey Mann's eyes.

“Oh?” he said, almost softly. “And what is your interest in Australium, doctor?”

Medic was gambling here. If he revealed too much, it would betray that he had an outside source giving him information

But Rene had brought it up, and the itch of curiosity at the back of Erik's mind had bugged him ever since. He knew what _he_ used Australium for. Now he wanted to know what Mann was using it for, and if those purposes overlapped.

“I have worked with Australium for much of my career. The substance is vital to my work. I am familiar enough with it to know its effects when I see them. I am curious, Herr Mann, about _your_ interest in the substance?”

It was risky to begin with accusations. Risky to ask questions at all. But Medic was trusting a hunch here, going with the gut feeling that he'd carried since their very first conversation. _We are alive,_ Grey Mann had said, so deliberately, as though it were something to be proud of. An accomplishment. And if it was...

Grey Mann stood up.

“You _are_ a sharp one, aren't you?” the little man said, as Medic's eyes widened. “I wondered when you would catch on. _If_ you would catch on. I've known many smart men in my time, but it is an unfortunate flaw of smart men to be unable to see past the limits of their own intelligence. Even when the facts are looking them right in the face. You're cleverer than most. And you've impressed me.”

Medic didn't know how to react when Mann began to unbutton the jacket of his suit. He sat, stock still and uncertain, staring with raised eyebrows as the small move removed the jacket entirely and laid it carelessly on the desk, only to start unbuttoning his shirt as well.

Medic very much wanted to leave. He was afraid of exactly what he had started here, of the idea that he had encouraged any misunderstanding. But he said nothing. He sat, silent and uncomfortable, and waited for an explanation.

When the shirt was fully undone and shrugged from thin shoulders, Grey Mann laid it neatly atop his discarded jacket and looked Medic full in the face. He was even smaller without the bulk of his clothes. The white cotton tank top, similar to the one Medic himself was wearing, only emphasized the lack of fat and muscle on his petite frame. The effect was oddly childlike. Mann removed the layer as well, and stood bare. Medic was unnerved almost beyond reason, leaning back in his chair as far as he could to distance himself. Grey Mann blinked, and turned around.

Medic gasped.

Whatever he had expected, whatever he thought he was prepared for, it was not this. Never in his life, never in his wildest dreams had he seen something so much as resembling... _this._

A contraption was affixed to the entire length of Mann's spine, starting just below where the collar of his shirt would end and running all the way down to his tailbone. It looked almost welded to his flesh and bone. Gleaming, surgical metal formed much of the structure of it, curving perfectly along the man's back, providing the framework for the container built into it. About a dozen tubes branched from the column, wormed into the skin and fixed in place with rivets all the way down. Shoulders, ribcage, lower back, hips. The tubes were placed at even intervals. Medic was reminded forcibly of an insect, sucking the life juices from its prey. Only, it was the opposite that was happening here.

A golden liquid filled the contraption, flowing through the tubes directly into flesh, blood, and bone. The substance was startling in its familiarity. Medic stared, astonished, at the sight before him. The ramifications of it flashed through his mind like an electric shock. He found himself on his feet, walking forward without ever consciously moving a muscle. He stopped himself from reaching out.

“This is...”

Grey Mann turned his head, his profile silhouetted over his shoulder.

“This is my life's work.”

The craftsmanship was remarkable, but the purpose behind such an elegant design was truly a work of genius. The small cap the top bore marks of wear, speaking of years and years of use. Years and years and years, filling and refilling the recepticle with the remarkable liquid, keeping the body alive well past its time. Fascinating. A truly fascinating solution.

Medic grabbed the letter opener from the desk.

Mann turned quickly, fear flashing in his eyes as the blade was unsheathed, but Medic didn't so much as glance at him. He brushed the clothing to the floor with a sweep of his arm and placed his own hand flat on the desk, palm down, and hefted the blade in his other hand. He didn't so much as hesitate before driving the knife home. It sliced cleanly between his third and forth metacarpal and lodged in the wood of the desk. Medic had to twist the blade to wrench it free.

He straightened up and held his hand out, right in the face of the astonished Mann. Blood flowed freely from the wound, dripping onto the stone tile beneath their feet and running into his sleeve. Medic could regret the stains later. For now, he stared at the self inflicted stab wound and waited.

Not fifteen passed before the bleeding stopped.

Thirty seconds, and the nerves and muscle had knitted themselves together.

Forty five seconds, the skin was beginning to close.

At the minute mark there was only a thin white scar on his palm.

Ninety seconds, and even that was gone. Not a trace of the injury remained. The blood was still wet, but there was no wound remaining to indicate where it had come from.

Grey Mann took Medic's unblemished hand in both of his and turned it over, back to front to back again, smearing the blood with shaking fingertips. Medic curled his own fingers, flexing simply to show that he could.

“You've done it, haven't you?” the little man said quietly, not taking his eyes off Medic's palm. “You've really done it.”

“I believe so, yes,” Medic told him. Mann's eyes flicked up to meet his, wide and pale and searching his face for any signs of deceit. He found none. There was none to find.

“Remarkable. Absolutely remarkable.”

He let go of Medic's hand. Thin arms curled around himself as though he'd caught a chill, but Medic realized he was reaching back to feel the places where the tubing ran into his skin. The act looked almost reflexive.

“I suspected you'd come farther in your experiments than I had, come closer to a breakthrough than I ever could,” he said, speaking quickly. “The moment I saw you I knew there was more to it, more than simple sustainment. All the signs, all the evidence, and yet I told myself that it couldn't be, that it wasn't possible for you to have reached such a point. A delusion, born of desperation. Of a need to be first, and better, and a desire to see you outsmarted even knowing as I did that no one has outsmarted you yet. I wanted to believe that I was right. That I was on the right path.”

His hands fell to his sides, then clasped loosely in front of himself. He fidgeted his thumbs, humble and thoughtful. Medic regarded him warily. He did not recognize the emotion on Grey Mann's face when their eyes met again.

“You have exceeded me, doctor. In all things, I stand in your shadow. It appears as though you have won the race.”

“I wasn't aware I had entered the competition,” Medic responded. His mouth was dry and he wasn't sure why. Mann smiled fleetingly at him, and he realized it was the first genuine smile he had seen on the man's face.

“What a wonderful attitude to have. There may be hope yet, then.”

“I... don't understand.”

“Of course you don't,” Grey Mann said, laughing, suddenly bitter. “No, you couldn't, not yet. I've wasted so much time, haven't I? Goodness. We'll have to do something about that. Oh, Dr. Schaller...”

This smile was genuine as well, and all the more terrible for it. A grin, scalpel-sharp and gleaming white under the fluorescents cut across his thin face. He stood out from his surroundings in sickly relief. A shrunken, shriveled, frail little being, standing there with the fires of ages burning in his eyes. Medic could do nothing but hold his breath. That, and will himself not to shake. There was nothing else he could have done.

“The things we could do will shake this wretched world straight to its rotten core.”

 


End file.
